


Reconcile

by illwick



Series: Unwind [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Bottom!Sherlock, Established Relationship, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Switching, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-09 15:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17409572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: John views his past through a new lens when he finds his relationship with Sherlock on thin ice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the first time since I’ve started working on “Unwind,” it’s actually essential to have read my series “In Between” as well.
> 
> “In Between” was the first series that I wrote in this fandom. It was written while the show was still on the air and served as something of an S4 Fix-It, detailing the trajectory of John and Sherlock’s relationship from friends to something more. “Unwind” occurs in the same universe (I consider the events of “In Between” the backstory for “Unwind”), but “Unwind” focuses more on the sexual element of their relationship.
> 
> For those of you who have been reading “Unwind,” you know that most installments of this series can stand as one-offs, but this next installment is intended to shed some light on John’s past, and to do that, I’m contextualising some of it within the events of “In Between.” So if you haven’t read “In Between” yet, now’s your chance to catch up before I start posting new chapters!
> 
> As I’ve already implied, “Reconcile” will be more plot than porn, but never fear-- we’ll still be earning that “E” rating. And for those of you that prefer your porn as one-offs, following “Reconcile” I’ll be back with the usual programming of porny stand-alones!

Dr. Richards gives John an appraising look over the top of her half-moon spectacles. John shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The silence stretches out between them.

Finally, a bemused smile creeps into the corners of Dr. Richards’ lips. “Alright. Not sure where to start today?”

John shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

Dr. Richards leans back in her chair. “That’s okay. Let’s start with an easy one: Overall, how was your week?”

John bites the inside of his lower lip. A dizzying montage of the week’s events flickers through his brain, and he can’t think of any coherent response, so he settles on a shrug. “It was… a mixed bag. Like most weeks.”

Dr. Richards nods, but she doesn’t look judgemental or concerned. “Alright. Want to tell me three good things?”

Despite himself, John smiles.

He likes Dr. Richards. Much more than the other therapists he’d seen in the past. They’d all been so full of snap judgements and hasty diagnosis, forcing him into stammered admissions of things he wasn’t even sure he really felt at all. 

But Dr. Richards wasn’t like that. She was patient, kind, and observant without jumping to conclusions. And she was excellent at providing John with tools to help him practice _mindfulness, self-care,_ and _self-awareness._

‘Three good things’ was the latest of her suggestions for John to try out; whenever John was feeling anxious or overwhelmed, he took a moment to reflect and think about _three good things_ happening at that very moment in his life. He’d internally scoffed at the idea at first, but over the past few weeks, he’d had to admit that it was incredibly useful at keeping his anxiety at bay and his sense of perspective in check.

He presses his lips together and collects his thoughts, then slowly begins to speak.

“So… Rosie made it to the top of the climbing frame at the park by herself on Tuesday. I know it might not sound like much, but the thing is massive, it even makes _me_ nervous. And before, she’d only go up about halfway, then get scared and turn around. But on Tuesday, she just… kept going. All the way to the top. Didn’t even hesitate. It was brilliant.”

Dr. Richards grins. “That must have been pretty special to witness.”

“Well, that’s the thing: I wasn’t actually there. Sherlock was with her that day, and he’d taken her to the park. But when he realised that Rosie was climbing all the way to the top, he pulled out his phone, took a video, and sent it to me.”

Dr. Richards’ eyebrows rise so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. “Really?”

John barks out a laugh. “I know! He recognised that the moment had _sentimental_ meaning, so he took a video, and sent it to me at work. I wasn’t sure whether I was more proud of Rosie for making the climb, or of Sherlock, for realising the emotional value of something like that. It was… it was really amazing.”

“He’s certainly come a long way.”

“He… he really has. Our counselling sessions have been going well and all, but sometimes it’s easy for me to forget just how much progress he’s made. Stuff like him sending me that video… A few years ago I’d have never thought he had the capacity to learn to recognise something emotionally significant like that. But… but he has, and he’s working so hard, and I’m really, really proud of him. And Rosie, too, of course, for being her perfect, fearless self.”

“That’s great, John. I’m so glad to hear it.”

“So… so yeah. That’s one. Um, second… oh! The surgery signed off on the hiring of an additional receptionist, and she started two weeks ago, and she’s been a godsend. I think we’re all finally on top of our paperwork for the first time in about six months. So it’s nice to have that off my back.”

Dr. Richards nods encouragingly.

“And number three, um… Let’s see.” John pauses, but Dr. Richards just gazes placidly at him, and he doesn’t feel compelled to rush. “Ah! The Tesco by our flat has finally started stocking the dark chocolate McVities again, so I don’t have to put up with any more of that milk chocolate bullshit.”

They both laugh, and Dr. Richards twirls her pencil absently between her fingers. “Alright, those were three really good things, John. But it sounds like you had some downs this week, too?”

John’s stomach twists uncomfortably, and he averts his eyes on instinct. He knows this is why he comes here, what he needs to get off his chest, but still, it’s always difficult to start.

But he knows once he starts, it will only get easier.

He takes a deep breath, and begins.

“So, as you know, Sherlock and I had taken on renovations on the basement flat in our building, to convert it into a functional laboratory and workspace.” Dr. Richards gives a neutral nod. “We worked out the finances and everything with Mrs. Hudson, and part of our financial plan involved a home improvement loan that I qualify for through the Veterans Association.” Another nod. “So I had to… I had to make sure all of my information was updated in the system, you know, so I’d been in touch with the local office to get everything signed off on…” He trails off, suddenly reluctant to proceed.

Dr. Richards leans forward slightly. “And?”

“And, um. Under, ‘relationship status,’ I’m just listed as ‘widowed.’ And Sherlock saw that, and he… I think he took offense.”

Dr. Richards blinks back at him blankly. “And you… didn’t want to change your status to reflect your current situation?”

“No. Not at the moment, no.”

Across from him, Dr. Richards takes a deep breath before uncrossing and recrossing her legs. “Alright. So... you currently have no interest in listing Sherlock as your domestic partner in any official capacity?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“I’m not ready.”

“Ready to… move on from Mary?”

Reluctantly, John shakes his head. “No, it’s not that… I’m not... ready for… ready for them to know.”

Dr. Richards’ eyes narrow. “For who to know, John? From what you’ve told me, since you and Sherlock got back together, you’ve been much more open about the nature of your relationship to family members, colleagues, acquaintances, your rugby team... And don’t I remember you mentioning that you’d told a few of the men you served with when you saw them at an event a few months back?”

John nods. “Yeah, I... I’ve been a lot more open about it. I’m not making an effort to hide it from anyone in my life anymore. It just… is what it is, and that’s fine. It’s… it doesn’t bother me now, the way it used to.”

“Okay, that’s good… but then why is it different to enter it into some abstract database? To me, that seems much less personal than, say, telling your rugby squad that you have a male partner.”

“Because…” John twists his hands in his lap before picking absently at a hangnail. “Because all the people I’ve told know me _now._ They didn’t know me… then.”

“Then?”

“During… during the war.”

Dr. Richards just purses her lips and waits for John to elaborate.

“The soldiers I told about my relationship status a few months back were other medics, men I’d trained with. But I wasn’t stationed with any of them overseas, I didn’t serve with them, I just knew them prior to deployment.”

He takes a deep breath. “When… when you’re serving, and you’re in combat, and you know any day could be your last, the people you’re with… you become close. Closer than close. You’re brothers. You share an intimacy that’s impossible to replicate outside of those circumstances. You share these moments, these insane, life-altering, soul-shattering moments, and in the aftermath, you’re turning to each other to figure out how to survive, how to will yourself to go on. And you know that no one else besides those men will ever, _ever_ understand what you’ve gone through.”

Dr. Richards nods.

John leans forward, willing her to comprehend what he’s saying. “And if… and if I state publically, in some… in some ‘abstract database,’ that I am in a relationship with a man, one of them could see it. One of them could find out. And then… and then everything we had, everything we went through, all of it will be thrown into question, because he’ll look back and wonder, ‘Fuck, was Watson hitting on me? When he held me in his arms as I sobbed after we watched our brother die, did he get off on it? Was he trying to get into my pants? The night we got that whiskey and stayed out late on patrol drinking it and the moonlight was so bright out there in the desert that we wrapped our arms around each other and swore we were immortal and screamed it up to the stars, did he want to kiss me that night? All that time we were getting close, did he just want to fuck?’”

Dr. Richards cocks her head. “You really believe that’s what they’d think?”

Anger rises up in John, a unexpected tidal wave of indignant rage. “FUCK, I know that’s what they’d think, because that’s what I’D think if I found out one of them were gay! But the thing is, I’M NOT GAY! No, I wasn’t hitting on them, no, I didn’t want to get in their pants, I never gave any of them so much as a sideways glance! I have never, ever, in my entire godforsaken life looked at a man sexually besides Sherlock Holmes. And even after he and I started sleeping together, I still haven’t looked at any other man sexually besides him. Ever. I’m straight. I like women. I like having sex with women, and I am exclusively attracted to to them. Except for the one person I just so happen to be sharing my fucking life with, and I don’t fucking know how to DEAL with that.”

To her credit, Dr. Richards barely reacts to John’s outburst. She simply picks up her glass of water, takes a sip, and returns it to the end table with a deliberate _clack._ Then she sits upright, smooths the creases in her slacks, and looks John squarely in the eye.

“Alright, John. I’m not going to sugar coat this for you. I wondered when we might get to this point, and it’s become apparent to me that it’s finally time.”

John glares at her. “Time for what?”

“Time to talk about what you’re really doing here.”

John furrows his brow. “I’m here… for therapy. For my anxiety and depression. To deal with the grief over the loss of my wife. To work through my trust issues. To figure out how to move on.”

“Yes, you stated all of that on your intake form.”

“So…” John holds his hands out in front of him, completely flummoxed.

“So that doesn’t explain why you’re _here._ With me.”

“Because…” John falters. “Because I gave Sherlock a few options, and he vetted all of them, and you were his top pick. I trusted his judgement, after my last… my last few forays into therapy didn’t work out so well.”

Dr. Richards doesn’t break her gaze. “John, I make it very obvious on my website that while I do help patients with anxiety, depression, and grief, my practice is LGBTQ-friendly, and I specialise in issues of sexual orientation and identity. I refuse to believe you somehow managed to skim over that when you were investigating your options.”

John bites the inside of his cheek. “No, no, not exactly. I just... wanted to make sure that whoever I was seeing, wouldn’t… wouldn’t judge… my situation with Sherlock. You know.”

“But John, I can’t help but notice that despite the fact we’ve been seeing each other for months, we’ve never once broached the topic of your sexual orientation or identity.”

John shakes his head. “What are you talking about? We discuss my relationship with Sherlock all the time, we work on those issues intensively, it’s been one of our main topics of--”

Dr. Richards holds up her hand, halting John mid-sentence. “Yes, we’ve discussed your relationship with Sherlock as a person, as an _individual._ We’ve covered a multitude of issues when it comes to the dynamics between the two of you. But not _once_ have we discussed your relationship in terms of Sherlock’s gender. In terms of him being male. And what that means to you, and how that makes you perceive yourself.”

John shifts uncomfortably. “I’m… I mean, I’m straight. I realise objectively that must sound insane, but I don’t know how else I’m supposed to describe it. I like women. Just women. And Sherlock.”

“So despite the fact that you’re in a committed homosexual relationship, you wouldn’t describe yourself as gay?”

“No.” John scrambles to quantify his answer; “Not… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Dr. Richards gives him a withering look. Though she’s never mentioned it outright, John was pretty certain that between her short-cropped hair, smart pantsuits, and the photograph of another woman on her desk, her sexual orientation wasn’t exactly a well-guarded secret.

“Alright. So you identify as straight. That’s fine. But you know, there is a school of thought that states it’s not our perception of ourselves, but others’ perception _OF_ us, that creates the reality in which we live. Does that make sense?”

John gives his head a light shake; he’s not quite sure what she’s getting at here.

“You may identify as straight, but you are living the life of a gay man. You have a romantic partner with whom you engage in sexual activity who is of the same gender as yourself. If you go out on a date, or take your daughter to the playground, or hold hands walking down the street, you are perceived as a gay man. If you are having sex together, living together, raising your child together, you are existing as a homosexual couple. Regardless of how you self-identify, the reality of your existence is that you are, in essence, gay.”

“So you’re saying that my self-identification is inconsequential?”

“Not in the slightest. Your self-identification is very important, and I don’t mean to diminish or demean that in any way. But in the eyes of society, John, you are not straight, and as such, you cannot continue to pretend you can will that fact away simply by claiming otherwise.”

“Fine, so to society, I’m gay. Whatever. What’s that got to do with anything else?”

“What plans do you have in place for Rosie in the event of your death?”

The question feels so off topic, John visibly starts. “I’m sorry?”

“You of all people understand the fragility of life. Have you made plans for Rosie should something happen to you?”

“I… um, no, not exactly. I’ve been meaning to, honestly, but there’s been so much going on--”

Dr. Richards holds up her hand again, and John trails off. “So let’s say, God forbid, you die tomorrow. What do you think would happen to your child?”

John swallows hard. “She’d… she’d probably go to my mum, wouldn’t she?”

“Most likely, yes. There’s a chance your sister could stake a claim, but it’s doubtful the state would grant it. So yes, Rosie would be turned over to your mother’s custody.”

The thought turns John’s stomach. Though he loves his mother - of course he does - their relationship through the years had been strained at best. His mother was conservative, traditional, she’d all but disowned Harry when she’d come out, and she refuses to refer to Sherlock as anything besides John’s flatmate; he can’t imagine her allowing Sherlock to have visitation rights, let alone custody. And John’s father… Christ, he couldn’t even think about Rosie interacting with his father.

“What… what about a living will? I could grant Sherlock custody in a living will, couldn’t I?”

Dr. Richards nods diplomatically. “You could. But it’s important to note that in certain cases, the contents of a living will can be contested if the individual granted custody has no legal ties to the child and is deemed incapable of filling that role. And while it pains me to say this, John, with Sherlock’s very public history of addiction and relapse, there’s a good chance the the court would not uphold your stated wishes, and surrender Rosie to the care of your blood relatives, should they take up the case.”

Righteous indignation sends a hot flare along John’s spine. “But that’s… that’s not fair.”

Dr. Richards give John a stern look. “Be that as it may, it’s not up to us to decide what’s fair or not fair. You say it all the time: _It is what it is._ And so I’m telling you what it is, John, and if you don’t like what you’re hearing, there’s no one but you in a position to change that.”

“By… by what, exactly? Marrying Sherlock?” The idea of he and Sherlock getting _married_ seems so unnaturally _conventional_ that it feels almost laughable; after all, the nature of their relationship has never been anything but untraditional. Marching themselves to a courthouse to recite the antiquated vows of what he knows Sherlock views as a pointlessly outdated institution feels insincere at best, and awkwardly forced at worst.

“You could establish a civil partnership if you find marriage to be a bit antiquated for your tastes. Sherlock could legally adopt Rosie. Either or both of those combined would, in most cases, offer Sherlock sufficient legal recourse to maintain custody of your daughter in the event of your death.”

John nods reluctantly. “All… alright. I’ll… think about it.”

Dr. Richards soldiers on. “But you must realise that would, in fact, be a matter of public record. While you may not publicise either event, your status would need to be updated for both Veterans and Government benefits. That said, it would be rare for anyone to notice unless they were specifically looking for information about you of that nature.”

John thinks about the continued tabloid fascination with Sherlock (and, by extension, himself). While it had been a while since they’d broken a case worthy of a front-page headline, it wasn’t unusual for their names to pop up in occasional gossip round-ups, or for a particularly intrepid reporter to come knocking on their door with a fake case, angling for an inside scoop on their private lives. All it would take would be one particularly diligent investigator, and the true nature of the relationship between the detective and his ‘confirmed bachelor’ flatmate would be splashed across the headlines for the entire country to read.

John notes his hands are clenched into fists.

Dr. Richards doesn’t say anything. She simply blinks back at him patiently.

It’s infuriating.

“I’m done talking about this.” John keeps his tone polite and cool.

Dr. Richards blinks again. When she finally speaks, her voice is measured. “Alright. What else would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” John suddenly feels strangely insubordinate, like a belligerent teenager. For some reason, he almost wants to tell Dr. Richards to sod off, with her ultimatums about how he should and should not establish his family. Who the hell was she to tell him what to do?

Dr. Richards stares back at him wordlessly.

They sit in silence for 30 minutes.

At the end of the appointment, John stands up and leaves.

He doesn’t say goodbye.

\-----------------

John arrives home to find Rosie just polishing off her dinner with Sherlock perched diligently beside her, gently encouraging her to finish her peas. For a man so opposed to nourishing himself, John’s eternally grateful that he at least appears to have a vested interest in Rosie’s caloric intake.

“Hello, loves.” John deposits his coat and bag by the front door and plops a doting kiss onto Rosie’s head, and she turns to beam up at him. He takes a step forward to do the same for Sherlock, but quickly remembers that they hadn’t really made up following their row over the loan forms; though Sherlock wasn’t exactly giving him the silent treatment, he’d been politely cool to John that morning, and John knows he shouldn’t push his limits. He settles for giving him a tight smile instead, which Sherlock pointedly doesn’t return.

“Hello, John.”

John decides to tread carefully; he doesn’t want to risk getting into an argument right now, especially not in front of Rosie. “Good day?”

“Fine.” Rosie finishes chewing her last bite, and Sherlock abruptly stands, whisking her plate away and depositing it in the sink. “Would you mind putting Rosie down tonight? There’s some work I need to do downstairs.”

“Um, yeah, sure, no worries…” Sherlock’s still clearly angry. Great. John takes a deep breath and tries to get his head on straight, but before he can say anything else, Sherlock has already disappeared out the door and down the stairwell.

John wants to follow him. He wants to put his hand on his shoulder and spin him around and snog him senseless and tell him that everything was going to be okay, that he’d figured it all out, that things were just fine between them, and Sherlock needn’t be cross anymore.

But that’s not true.

None of that is true.

Because John has no idea how to fix this. He has no idea to progress past this impasse, and he feels entirely unmoored in uncharted waters. 

Because he loves Sherlock. He loves their life. He loves their family. But he has no idea how to reconcile that love with his own identity.

He doesn’t even know where to start.

“Adda?” Rosie’s voice rings out behind him, and he turns to find her gazing brightly up at him, face endearingly coated with the remnants of her dinner.

John swallows hard, and his heart swells with love. At least he has this. This is simple. This part is easy.

“Oh, my sweet girl, you’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you? Should we get you cleaned up?” He grabs the wipes off the counter and makes to take a pass at what appears to be the remnants of squash streaked up her cheek practically to her hairline.

Rosie flinches and scowles. “Serrock.” She bats John’s hand away.

“Sherlock’s busy right now, Rose. Let Dada do it, yeah?”

“Sing Serrock song.” Rosie glares up at John belligerently.

“What… what’s the Sherlock song, Rose?”

“Wipe wipe song.”

“What song, honey?”

“Wipe wipe song!”

“I… can you sing it for me?”

“NO! SERROCK!” John senses a meltdown imminent. Frantically, he grabs his mobile.

JW  
<19:22> What’s the wipe wipe song?

SH  
<19:22> What?

JW  
<19:22> rosie is asking for the wipe wipe song and she’s about to have a meltdown please help asap

SH  
<19:23> You sing ‘Wipe Wipe Wipe your Face” to the tune of Row Your Boat

SH  
<19:28> Did that work?

JW  
<19:32> Yes, thanks.  
<19:33> I’m going to finish getting her ready for bed, then I’ll be down.

SH  
<19:33> Suit yourself.

By the time John makes his way down to 221C, he feels weary. Rosie’d fallen asleep fairly easily, but the prospect of starting another row with Sherlock feels preemptively exhausting. Even so, he forces his feet to march down the stairs into the newly-transformed space.

Tonight, Sherlock’s sprawled on the floor, assembling a rack of wrought iron industrial-chic shelves that John strongly suspects Aaron had helped pick out (considering that neither John nor Sherlock cared much for aesthetics, John couldn’t help but note that Sherlock’s recent purchases for the new workspace had been uncharacteristically tasteful). He takes a few cautious steps into the room. Sherlock doesn’t look up.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Sherlock remains fixated on the Allen wrench he’s employing to secure a shelf to the supports.

“Rosie went down without much more of a fuss. Thanks for your help with the song, by the way.”

“Mmm hmm.”

John hovers uncertainly. There’s no furniture on the laboratory side of the room, it’s all clustered over in the ‘client area’ by the fireplace which feels awkwardly far away from where Sherlock is working, so he simply shifts restlessly from foot to foot. Sherlock continues to work.

John swallows. “I’m… I’m sorry. For… for what I said last night. I didn’t mean that… that being gay is bad. You… you know that, right?”

“John, believe it or not, I do not need your permission to be okay with my own sexuality.” Sherlock’s tone is unmistakably icy.

“I… that’s not what I meant. I know you’re fine being gay. I’m fine with you being gay. That’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet John’s, and there is no warmth in them.

“I just… you know I’m not gay. And I don’t… I don’t understand why you want me to pretend to be.”

Sherlock issues a derisive snort. “Well, pardon me for thinking it’s a bit of a stretch to call it ‘pretending’ when you’re fucking me on a regular basis.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, you know I’m not… I’m not pretending what I feel for you, Jesus. I just don’t feel that way about _other_ men.”

“Right. So it’s perfectly straight to live with a man, fuck a man, suck a man’s cock, occasionally let that man _fuck you,_ but as long as you wank off to women, you get to avoid that icky _homosexual_ label, is that it?”

John can feel his temper rising despite his best intentions. “No, that’s not it, and you know bloody well that’s not it.”

“Then WHAT IS IT, John?” Sherlock glares up at him, and John is startled and slightly horrified to note there are actual _tears_ welling up in his eyes. “Remember all those years ago, how I had to beg you before you finally started having sex with me? How do you think that felt, to feel like you fucking me was a _special privilege_ I should be _bloody grateful_ for? How do you think it felt to hear you shouting to anyone who would listen about how NOT GAY you were, as if being gay were something shameful or embarrassing? You can sit here and lie through your teeth about how _‘FINE’_ it all is to you, but that’s just when it applies to other people, hmm? When it’s just us freaks and faggots and queers messing about with each other, that’s _ALL FINE,_ but the minute YOU get tangled up in it, it’s somehow so shameful that you openly refuse to be associated with any of it?”

“I am NOT ashamed of what I have with you, Sherlock, goddamnit, don’t you dare bring up that shit from our past right now.” John suddenly finds himself blinking back tears as well, and his voice is coming out in a dangerous hiss. “We BOTH did things we were ashamed of, back before you left. We were scared and stupid and we nearly fucked it all up beyond repair, but I thought we agreed we shared the blame, so don’t you fucking DARE lay that all on me. I’ve been better this time. We both have.”

Sherlock glares mutinously up at him, but he doesn’t issue a retort.

John takes a few deep breaths, attempting to reel his temper in. “Okay. I don’t… we’re obviously not going to solve this tonight. We have a session with our counsellor on Thursday, maybe we can bring it up then, with a more impartial third party to mitigate.” They’d been seeing a trauma counsellor together through the Veteran’s network, and John had been pleasantly surprised at how much it had been helping them communicate, even about issues that had little to do with the actual trauma either of them were recovering from; Just having a guide to help them navigate tricky conversations had been invaluable, and John’s constantly grateful they’d taken the step to seek help together.

Sherlock purses his lips and refocuses his attention on the shelf still clasped in his hands. “Fine.”

John extends a hand towards him. “Want to come upstairs and have some tea and maybe a bite to eat? I’m going to have leftovers for dinner, I could use the company.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up. “Not hungry.”

“Will you be coming to bed?”

“Why, did you want to have some nice _heterosexual_ sex with your male partner?”

The words feel like a physical blow, and John recoils. By the time he collects himself, he can feel his anger welling up again. “Jesus. Fine, have it your way. See you in the morning.” With that, he turns on his heel, and storms back upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry refers to elements of John’s relationship with Sarah which were previously only referenced on johnwatsonblog.co.uk (in the entry “Quick Update”), which, at the time of publication, was part of the BBC Canon.

_2011_

He remembers the first moment the seed planted in his head took root. He doesn’t remember how the seed got there, but he has an inkling it was sometime approximately three seconds after he and Sherlock locked eyes for the first time in the lab in the basement of St. Bart’s. But that’s all it was-- a seed. John refused to water it, or give it light. So it lay, dormant and daunting, buried beneath thick layers of denial and oppression, for the better part of three months, while John diligently ignored its existence.

He’d been sitting on the terrace of an Italian restaurant on Waiheke Island, just off the coast of Auckland. It was the tail end of a holiday that could be summarily considered a bit of a letdown: He’d gone to New Zealand to visit an old Uni mate for a couple of weeks and, still reeling from a rather tense altercation with Sarah regarding his “unhealthy codependency” with Sherlock, he’d invited her to come along. To his surprise (and vague sense of trepidation), she’d agreed, and they’d spent a perfectly pleasant 14 days together, hiking the countryside, sampling the cuisine, and having quite a lot of sex; all in all, rather typical holiday pastimes.

The trouble was, while the sex was lovely and the scenery was breathtaking and the food was noteworthy, the company was… strangely lacking. Their conversations felt awkward, forced and stilted, and John had no idea why. It wasn’t as if they weren’t compatible; Sarah made an excellent travel companion, they always agreed on what type of wine to order with dinner, and their sexual activities had been varied and delightfully engaging. He’d started to suspect that perhaps it was all in his head, that their interactions were perfectly natural and he was simply overthinking things, but as they sat side by side, staring out at the water sipping a pitch-perfect Pinot Gris amidst a particularly heavy silence, he couldn’t shake the unease plaguing him. 

He’d been racking his brain for something to say-- the weather? The wine? They’d discussed both at length-- when Sarah cleared her throat and spoke.

“So… I realise my timing here’s a bit pants, but… this isn’t working out, is it?”

John snapped his gaze from the dazzling watercolour the sunset was painting on the bay to the placid expression on her face. She seemed completely calm and serene, taking in the scenery before her with a sense of nonchalance. John couldn’t quite be sure he was understanding her correctly, and he decided not to jump to conclusions.

“What… um, what’s not working out?”

“This. Us.” She gestured stoically between them with her wine glass, then took a sip.

John was a bit taken aback. He took a pause to collect himself before replying. “What… what makes you say that?”

Sarah shot him a wry glance. “Oh, come on. You’re not going to tell me you think this trip was a raving success, are you? That you’re madly in love with me, and stunned by our effortless compatibility?”

John couldn’t help but snicker, the ice between them finally breaking. “Ah, no, not… not exactly, when you put it like that. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Sarah shrugged. “No hard feelings. Not your fault. Or mine, either. I think we’re just… in different places, yeah?”

He quirked a grin at her. “Yeah. I guess you could say that. But I think--”

Just then, his mobile pinged, and he flinched out of instinct. He and Sarah had been taking turns leaving their phones on in case anyone at the surgery needed to contact them (though the staff had assured them both that they’d be well-covered, it had seemed a bit irresponsible to have two resident doctors out simultaneously with no means of reaching them), but so far the only texts John had received the entire trip were from Sherlock, who seemed to have somehow missed the memo that John was halfway around the world and not, in fact, just up the stairs at Baker Street.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: Sherlock Holmes  
<26 April 20:21> Did you buy milk?

Fighting the urge to chuck his mobile unceremoniously off the balcony, John simply flicked it off, pocketed it, and clasped the bridge of his nose, willing himself to take a deep breath.

“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, texting me to buy milk, the ignorant git. I swear to God--”

“No, I mean… the reason this isn’t working out. It’s because you have feelings for Sherlock.” Sarah’s tone was firm but non-accusatory, but even so, the insinuation from someone John had _thought_ understood his predicament sent him reeling.

“I… Jesus, no, Sarah, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not gay.”

She pursed her lips and turned to meet his eye, her gaze steady and unwavering. “I know that. But… sexuality isn’t binary, is it? It’s not just black or white, one thing or the other. You can be one thing, with a little something else mixed in. Isn’t that what Kinsey was getting at, after all, when he came up with his scale?”

John took a deep swallow of wine, steeling himself to continue this conversation, which was quickly veering into dangerous waters. “Regardless of what some batty old pervert was getting at when he invented his scale of human sexuality, that’s not… that’s not what’s happening here. Sherlock is just… he’s… he’s different. He needs… a lot of things, a lot of attention, someone to look out for him, and he hasn’t got many people in his life willing to give him that, and he… he gave me a sense of direction when I’d just left the Army and couldn’t find my purpose. Taking… taking care of him is the least I can do in return. It doesn’t… It doesn’t mean I want to get in his pants or any weird shit like that.”

“Any _weird shit_ like that?” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Come on, John, don’t be such a prude. I hooked up with my female flatmate once, when we were nineteen and both pissed out of our minds on a jug of cheap Chablis. It doesn’t make me a lesbian; some experimentation is perfectly natural.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. While he considered himself relatively liberal (despite his strict upbringing and the machismo atmosphere of the service), the thought of doing anything sexual with an individual possessing a cock left him feeling distinctly unsettled and slightly squeamish.

But instead of quantifying any of that, he simply took another fortifying drink of wine and laughed it off dismissively. “Okay, I’m _definitely_ going to need to hear more about that story later.” Sarah rolled her eyes, and he responded with a smile. “But surely you understand there’s a substantial difference between a bit of innocent experimentation at the age of nineteen under the influence of some criminally unappetising alcohol, versus being a forty year old man who’s… well, not exactly out of touch with his own sexual desires and who is perfectly capable of satisfying his sexual appetite.” He waggled his eyebrows as suggestively as possible, and he could detect a slight blush spreading across Sarah’s cheeks. He may not be a detective, but he could be fairly sure she’d at least been enjoying the sexual aspect of their relationship. “I may not know much for certain, but the way I feel about women-- women like you-- well, I can say with a high degree of confidence that homosexuality isn’t in my wheelhouse.”

With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair, casually combing her fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face-- a gesture John found fondly familiar, and he momentarily ached with the realisation that things between them were ending. “You can call it what you like, John-- you’re too caught up on the label. Being attracted to Sherlock doesn’t make you homosexual. It makes you human. Christ, I’ve seen the way people look at him: Men, women, the occasional inappropriately mature child--” (John snickers at the dark humour, and he sees the corners of her lips turning up, too), “--and, well… let’s just say, I think a lot of people would _understand_ if you were to sample the goods.”

He shook his head and leaned forward to refill his wine. “Nah. Besides, I’d have no idea what to even _do.”_

Sarah shot him an appraising look. “You do realise there’s this invention called the internet, right? Loads of useful stuff on there, porn and the like, it’s extraordinary, really--”

“Shut up, I don’t mean sexually, I’m sure that part’s pretty self-explanatory. I mean… he’s my _flatmate._ I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows. “May I suggest a jug of cheap Chablis?”

John groaned and buried his face in his hand not occupied holding up his wine. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this. And no, I’m not going to get him drunk on Chablis; I don’t want him to associate me with near-fatal hangovers. May I remind you, we’re not nineteen anymore.”

“Exactly, John, you’re a grown-arse man. And watching you pine away for Sherlock, following him around with those puppy-dog eyes, jumping every time you anticipate he might even _think_ ‘jump’... it’s not a good look. On anybody.”

John’s good will dissipates in an instant. “I don’t follow him around like a dog.” This is suddenly dredging up memories of their old argument about John’s _codependence_ , and he has no desire to revisit it. Especially not if what he had with Sarah wasn’t salvageable; what was the point of continuing to argue?

“Fine, you follow him around like a forty-year-old soldier with a schoolboy crush on an adult man and a chronic case of denial.” Her tone had turned unmistakably terse.

“That’s it.” John rose (a bit unsteadily; he’d had more wine than he thought) and threw some cash on the table. “I’m going to go pack up and head to the airport.”

“Our flight isn’t until tomorrow night.”

“I’ll take my chances on standby.”

“Fine. See you at the office, then.”

“See you.”

The flight back was the most restless John had ever had. Sure, perhaps it was the time change, or the nagging disappointment of another failed relationship. But deep down, he suspects perhaps it was because on that flight was the first time that he truly let himself imagine what it would be like to _be_ with Sherlock. _Like that._

Sure, before that point he’d had the occasional flash of porcelain-pale skin or jade-green eyes or that perfect, pert behind when he was nearing orgasm as he masturbated, but he’d written it off as the frenzied conjurings of a lust-drunk brain. But on his flight home, he let himself imagine what it would be like to kiss Sherlock. To touch his skin. To suck each of those long, nimble fingers into his mouth, to feast upon the pale column of his neck, to hear what he sounded like when he came.

To hold his hand? To press a peck to his cheek as he walked out the door to the surgery each morning? To sit beside him at Angelo’s, and for once, not be put off by the candlelight?

No, no, that was preposterous, all of it. This was _Sherlock Holmes,_ for Christ’s sake. And he was John Watson: soldier, doctor, dutiful son and brother, unapologetic womaniser, and staunch heterosexual. And that was that.

Except that it was far too late. The seed had taken root, and begun to grow.

The next week at the office, he and Sarah were perfectly cordial with one another. They remained polite and professional, and Sarah never said a word as John diligently worked his way through Amber, Meredith, and Jeanette.

And when, shortly after the incident with Bond Air, John stopped dating altogether, Sarah never asked him if perhaps he’d found a better alternative behind the closed door of 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted the first two chapters simultaneously; the rest will follow one per week! As always, thanks for reading... Leave questions! Leave comments! Leave feelings!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this should be fairly evident from the tags, but I do want to stress here that this work deeply explores the effects of homophobia and internalized homophobia. While it’s a difficult subject, I feel it’s one that’s important to address in this series. That said, the next several chapters were difficult to write and could be triggering to read, so please proceed with that in mind.

His mobile rings at 3:46 in the morning. He gropes groggily in the darkness, and answers it without thinking.

The voice on the other end of the line is thick and quiet. “Johnny? It’s me.”

“Harry?”

“He’s gone.”

John sits up. The words sink in.

“Okay. I’ll be on the first train in the morning.”

He hangs up.

He’s still staring blindly into the darkness when the bedroom door opens. “John? Was that your mobile?” Sherlock sounds tired. John realises he’d never come to bed.

“My dad died.”

There’s a long pause. “Oh.”

John swallows. “I’ll take the train home this morning. To make arrangements. Can Rosie stay here?”

“Of course. Should… shouldn’t we join you?”

John shakes his head. “In a few days. For the funeral. Not now, I just need to… take care of things first.”

“Alright.”

John rubs his eyes, and throws off the duvet. “I need to pack. First train’s at six.”

Sherlock gives a curt nod. “I’ll make tea.” He disappears.

The London skyline is swallowed up by the horizon as John stares blankly out the window of the train. The morning had been a blur: A frenzy of packing, quick pecks on the cheek for Rosie and Sherlock, a text to the lead doctor at the surgery, and a taxi ride through the misty, vacant streets. He doesn’t quite remember buying his ticket, but he supposes he’s headed in the right direction; how many times has he made this ride before?

Perhaps this time will be his last.

Perhaps now his mother will finally agree to move closer to the city. Somewhere more easily accessible. Somewhere she can see Rosie more often. Now that his father was finally gone.

Gone.

The word rings with the heavy ache of the inevitable. John’s father had been ill for years.

Well, _ill_ was what they called it. Physically, he seemed well enough, but there was no other way to define whatever had finally shaken loose in his booze-addled brain and turned him into a petty, antagonistic arsehole.

Or perhaps he’d been a petty, antagonistic arsehole all along, and they’d all just finally gotten fed up with it and shipped him off to live in the nursing home, where they paid good money for _other_ people to put up with the same damn bullshit they’d endured for free for as long as John could remember.

He absently wonders what his last words to his father had been. Not that it mattered, in the scheme of things; he doubt his father cared one way or the other.

John certainly remembers what his father’s last words to him had been. He and his mother had gone to visit him on Easter Sunday at the nursing home, for a family dinner at the dining hall there. 

It had been predictably dismal. They were seated with two other families, one of whom John’s mother was _constantly_ reminding him had been their neighbours back when John was a boy, the husband having served in the Army with John’s father. The wife, Mrs. Gallagher, had been asking John what he’d been up to, and he was giving her the glossy, tamed-down version of a case he and Sherlock had recently solved. She and her husband nodded along amicably before she innocently interjected, “Now remind me, John, dear: Who is Sherlock again?”

And without hesitation or remorse, John’s father had opened his mouth and replied, “He’s the fucking queer that turned my son into a faggot.”

John had risen from the table, deposited his napkin in his chair, and never gone back.

So that was John’s father’s last word to him. _Faggot._

Seems only appropriate, somehow.

It wasn’t as if that was the first time John’s father had called him a faggot, though John’s fairly certain that was the first time he’d said it and _meant_ it.

After all, that was the word he used when John was seven and his father caught him having a tea party with Harry and her dolls, and hauled him out of her room by the back of his shirt. _“You don’t play with dolls, son. You’re not some kind of faggot.”_ It was the word he used when John was injured on the rugby pitch when he was fifteen years old and was forced to sit out the final minutes of the title match. _“Should have shaken it off like a man instead of hiding on the bench like a little faggot.”_ It was the word he threw at John when he’d announced he was going to become a doctor instead of joining the Army and following in his father’s footsteps. And then, when John finally _“manned up”_ and enlisted, it was the word his father used conspiratorially between them to describe _civilian_ men, city boys, men who were weak-willed and soft and made vulnerable by modern society. But not John and his father, no. By then, the slur was delivered with a wink and a jab, as if it were some sort of inside joke that they shared, two military men, _manly_ men, rising above the effeminate shortcomings of those not in the service. _Real_ men.

But the last time he’d said it to John, he’d meant it. John was a faggot. He was a man who fucked men. And kissed men and loved men and let himself be fucked by men.

Well, _man._

Singular.

Nonetheless.

When he’d first moved back in with Sherlock after Mary’s passing, he’d continued to diligently refer to him as his _flatmate_ in the presence of his parents. It was easier that way, after all. He didn’t want to have to explain something he barely understood himself.

But there was only so long that could last. There were questions raised that pushed things past the boundaries of plausible deniability: Who was caring for Rosie on the weekends when John would visit his father in the home? How was John paying for childcare on the days he was working at the surgery, if he was only part-time? Where was Rosie sleeping, considering their flat only had two bedrooms?

“Sherlock and I share a bedroom.” He’d said it plainly, honestly, without any hint of underlying insinuation. As though it were just a random fact he was nonchalantly acknowledging.

That day, Harry’d actually agreed to come along for lunch, and her fork had frozen halfway to her mouth. John’s father had glowered into his soup, and his mother had blinked at him uncomprehendingly. There was a three second pause. And then John’s mother said, “Oh. Well, London real estate being what it is, I suppose. You know, John, you really ought to consider moving back closer to home. Far more affordable.” And they’d returned to their meal.

The next time John had come for a visit, his mother spent the first half of lunch telling John all about the _lovely_ young woman who had just started working at the local beauty salon, and offered to introduce them.

The next time, it was the secretary at church.

And then the receptionist at her podiatrist’s office.

And so on.

And so on.

And so on.

Each time, John simply politely declined, and said that he and Sherlock and Rosie were getting on just fine on their own.

And that was all he really felt like saying on the matter.

So he’d believed his parents were, at the very least, in denial about the entire situation. And that was alright with him; they could believe what they liked.

But then John’s father had spoken those words about Sherlock: _“He’s the fucking queer that turned my son into a faggot.”_ And it became very, _very_ obvious that John’s parents weren’t in denial. They were _ashamed_ of him. And nothing was the same after that.

John had remained cordial with his mother, even after that day. He couldn’t hold her accountable for the sins of his father; after all, she’d suffered just as much verbal and emotional abuse as John over the years, and the fact that she seemed to have developed a robust case of Stockholm Syndrome in the process was not, John reminded himself, strictly her fault. And he’s fairly certain the lessons she’d absorbed being hurled at her from the pulpit at the twice-weekly masses she attended did little to change her worldview. She’d clung to her faith like a life raft for as long as John could remember. And he couldn’t ask her to start questioning that now.

He disembarks onto the familiar platform and makes his way to the taxi queue on autopilot, his mind a million miles away. As such, it’s perhaps unsurprising that he doesn’t react to the sound of his own name until he feels a hand clap down on his shoulder, and he yelps in surprise as he whirls around.

“Jesus Christ, Johnny, ‘s just me, ‘m not gonna rob you. At least, not in broad daylight on a Wednesday morning, you twat.” Harry grins at him before stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug.

He hugs her back. It’s been a while since he’s seen her; they met every so often back in the city, mainly to discuss the logistics and finances of managing their father’s care. Harry had long since thrown off the mantle of familial expectations, and rarely attended any family events--not that John could blame her. He hadn’t told her about the _faggot_ incident at Easter, but she’d clearly picked up on the fact that John’s visits to see their father had abruptly ceased a few months back, though she’d never asked about it outright.

She pulls away and gives him a once-over. “You look like shit. Come on, car’s this way.”

John grabs his luggage and follows in her wake. They make their way across the lot to an ancient-looking Ford Fiesta that appears to be more rust than metal. Harry flings open the driver’s side door and gestures at John to climb in beside her. He tosses his luggage in the boot and does so, vaguely perplexed.

“You have a car?”

“Nah. Flo let me borrow hers, on the caveat that I don’t smoke inside.” She starts the engine and rolls down the window, then promptly digs into her pocket, produces a cigarette, and lights up before throwing the car into reverse.

John does his best not to roll his eyes. The gesture is just so undeniably _Harry:_ the effortless carelessness with which she casually disregarded decorum, and her callus willingness to subject them both to the freezing temperature outside in an effort to have plausible deniability for her discretion. It’s Harry, in a nutshell.

John just jams his hands into his pockets to protect them from the chill, and says nothing.

For a while they just drive, making their way out of the village centre and down to the familiar road that led to the outcropping of houses where they’d spent their shared childhood. At one point the silence starts to feel oppressive and John tries to ask how their mother is doing, but it’s hard to hear Harry’s response over the wind whipping violently through the open window, so he gives up and closes his eyes, the sway of the car lulling him into a near-trance. He feels weary already.

The sound of their tires hitting the gravel drive brings him back to reality. He blinks his eyes open to find himself staring at his childhood home. The house looks strangely small and gloomy.

“You alright, Johnny?” Harry’s peering over at him as she rolls the window up, concern etched into the corners of her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m just… was it always so… bleak?”

Harry throws back her head and laughs. “This place has been grim as fuck since the day we were born. Can’t believe it’s taken you this long to notice. Now get your arse inside; I’ve been wrangling the concerned well-wishers all morning but I’m about at the end of my rope. Need some of that goody-two-shoes _Doctor Captain John Watson_ charm to get the attention off me and my wreck of a life for a hot second.” She pops the door handle and shoves it open with her weathered combat boot. 

John sighs and follows suit. “It’s not ‘Doctor Captain,’ you know,” he calls after her. “It’s one or the other. You don’t use them together.”

John fetches his bag as Harry strides off towards the house, leaving John scrambling to catch up with her. “Well, try explaining that to Mum.” She adapts the warbling, doting tone they use when they mimic their mother’s mannerisms. “After all, Johnny, you’re the golden boy, the military man with brains _and_ brawn, a hero wounded in combat, now with a _successful_ career in the big city, working at a surgery _and_ with Scotland Yard, if you can believe it, and so _tragically_ widowed and left to raise a gorgeous daughter _all on your own._ Or so she tells every eligible woman in town.”

John can feel his cheeks flushing with anger. “Watch it, Harry.” As cordial as their relationship has been over the past few years, discussions regarding the nature of John’s relationship with Sherlock has remained strictly off-limits. Occasionally he’d catch Harry mining for information (admission?), and he always brushed her off.

Harry reaches the front door but pauses with her hand on the knob and turns to give John a levelling glare. “Just repeating what I hear, Johnny. Unless there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell me?” John pulls to a halt, lips in a firm line. He shakes his head.

And with that, she swings the door open and strides inside. John reluctantly follows her.

His mother is, unsurprisingly, a picture-perfect portrait of grief. She’s seated next to the fireplace, Father Malloy at her side, rosary beads in hand, her face pale and eyes wet. They light up as soon as John crosses the threshold. “Oh, Johnny, you’ve made it!” She rises to her feet and opens her arms, and John pulls her into a firm embrace.

“‘Course I made it, Mum. Would never leave you here alone for this.” He presses a soft kiss to her cheek, and she steps back, momentarily cupping his face in her hands.

“I know, I just… worried.”

Worried that John wouldn’t come because his father’s last act towards him was to hurl a slur in his direction over Easter dinner. Perhaps not a completely unwarranted concern, John ponders.

“Well, you can stop worrying, I’m here now. Father Malloy, good to see you.” He extends his hand and the priest rises to his feet to shake it.

“John, always a pleasure.” He gives John a warm smile.

John takes a moment to notice just how _young_ Father Malloy is. Not that he’s a young man by any stretch - he’s certainly in his mid-sixties by now. But it strikes John for the first time that though Father Malloy had been with their parish since at least John’s first communion, he must have been a very young man back then - no older than his early twenties. It’s strange, John thinks, to meet him here, now, as an adult, an equal, instead of as the stern but kind authority figure of John’s youth. Though John hadn’t joined his mother for mass in years, Father Malloy makes no mention of it, for which John is exceptionally grateful.

Instead, he simply gives John a welcoming nod. “Well. Shall we discuss the preparations?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching to twice-weekly updates, as the chapter count went up and don't want to prolong this FOREVER...

<22 January 18:22> I’ve booked a room at the inn in town, tomorrow through Sunday. Can you and Rosie take a morning train?

SH  
<18:23> Yes. I’ve arranged my schedule at the lab accordingly, and Lestrade is aware we won’t be on call.

JW  
<18:23> Thanks. Rosie can stay at my Mum’s, since she already has the portable crib set up.

<18:27> You busy right now?

SH  
<18:28> No. Why?

“Hello, John.”

“Hey, Sherlock.”

“... Is there a reason you’re calling?”

John rolls his eyes. “I know you prefer to text, but sometimes I just need to hear your voice, okay?”

On the other end of the line, he can hear Sherlock sigh. He does his best not to let it bother him. He knows Sherlock detests small talk, but they’d discussed John’s need for the occasional verbal affirmation at length, and he hopes Sherlock’s willing to indulge him on this particular occasion.

“Fine. So how are you?” Sherlock’s response sounds stiff and automated, devoid of any inkling of affection.

“Well, my dad’s dead, my mum’s a mess, Harry is _openly_ off the wagon again, I’m surrounded by people who’ve known me since I was five, half of them still call me _Johnny_ and the other half insist on _Captain,_ and I want to go stick my head in the oven but it’s so full of my aunt Mildred’s stress-baking that I doubt it would fit.”

“Sounds delightful. Sorry to be missing it.”

“Shove off, you’re not sorry in the least.”

“No, I’m really not.” Sherlock drawls before lapsing into stony silence once more.

John’s pace grinds to a halt and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s about halfway down the road to town (Aunt Flo had offered to let him borrow the car but he’d politely refused, saying he needed some air), and his fingers are going numb from the cold. He probably should have wrapped himself up better. “Listen, I know… I know things are a little strained between us right now and that there are issues we need to resolve, but… but can we please put all that on the back burner, just for now? I swear once we get back to London we’ll work on it and get everything sorted, but Christ, Sherlock, I’m barely keeping my head above water here--”

“I know. It’ll be alright, John.” He sounds tired, but there’s a warmth to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago. It’s the first kind thing Sherlock has said to him since their row two days ago, and John feels some of the pressure settled on his chest dissipate. Simply knowing that Sherlock was open to working things out fills him with an overwhelming sense of relief.

John feels his lips turn up into a smile. “Thank you, love. I just… I just needed to hear that from you. I know this isn’t easy, the timing’s shit, but--”

He’s cut off by the blare of a car horn, and he nearly jumps out of his skin as a grey sedan pulls over to the side of the road behind him before screeching to a halt. He turns to face the car and is seconds from punching the bonnet and going on a tirade about _watching the damn road_ when the window rolls down to reveal an all-too-familiar face peering out of it.

“Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t _Captain_ John Hamish Watson.”

The phone nearly slips out of John’s fingers as he blinks at the driver uncomprehendingly. “...Lindy?”

She cocks her head to the side and laughs. “Are you honestly so surprised to see me? I live three doors down from your bloody house.”

John attempts to shake himself out of his stupor. “No, no, should have expected it, though I didn’t really think you’d try and run me off the road. Though now that I think about it, maybe I should have expected that, too.”

She laughs again. “You headed into town? Want a lift?”

John responds before he can think. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be great. I just need to-- hang on.” He holds up a finger and gestures to his phone. Lindy waves her hand, and John turns away to give their conversation some privacy. “Sherlock? I just ran into an old friend. I should go.”

“Mmm. Pity. I was just about to dazzle you with _small talk_ about my day. What I had for breakfast. What shirt Rosie picked out. How I took my tea. But if you must, I suppose I’ll save all the gory details for a later date.”

“Piss off.” He’s laughing despite himself, and he can hear Sherlock chuckling on the other end of the line.

“Piss off yourself, you’re the one who called me.” It’s good to hear a smile in Sherlock’s voice again.

“Fair enough. Give Rosie a kiss for me. See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I love you.” They don’t say those words that often, but for some reason, John feels compelled to remind Sherlock in this moment.

There’s a beat before Sherlock replies. “I know. I have a good night, John.”

“Bye, Sherlock.”

He hangs up. It still stings, sometimes, that Sherlock’s not as openly affectionate with his words as John’s past partners have been. And John _understands--_ really, he does-- that Sherlock’s difficulty processing and conveying his emotions makes it challenging for him to verbalise concepts as saccharine as _sentiment_ in casual conversation. John knows that Sherlock loves him: Sherlock tells him when it _matters,_ during times they’re intimate and connected and their emotions are raw and exposed. But in a casual phone chat on an unassuming weeknight? Not a chance.

With a shrug, he pockets his mobile and trudges over to the passenger door of the car, shoulders hunched from the cold, and gratefully swings it open to lower himself inside.

“Were you honestly walking to town in this weather with just a jacket on? Are you mad?” Almost as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she’s shaking her head. “Actually, forget I said that, I sound like my mum.” She puts the car into gear and pulls back out onto the roadway.

John laughs. “Christ, you did, a bit.”

“Excellent. My worst nightmare’s finally come true.”

“Worst nightmare? Come on, your mum wasn’t that bad.”

“Wasn’t that bad? Are you forgetting the time she caught you sneaking out of my bedroom at two in the morning and chased you down the street with a garden ho?”

John brings his fingers to his chin, adapting a position of deep thought. “You know, now that you mention it, my memory may have glossed over that bit.”

“Or that time she threatened to, and I quote, ‘chop your bollocks off’ if she caught me skiving off school with you again?”

“Well, luckily we managed to avoid that. Entirely for the sake of your education, of course.”

“Absolutely. The state of your bollocks had nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

She throws him a sidelong glance before reverting her eyes diligently back to the road. “So… bollocks aside, how’s the rest of you?”

John laughs, and Lindy does too. The question feels so undeniably absurd in the moment, in a way that he can’t quite quantify. “I’m… here. So… predictably dismal?”

She shakes her head and brushes her perfect blonde ringlets back from her face. John tries not to remember how they felt tangled in his fingers. “You don’t have to make it sound all doom and gloom, you know. Not all of us who stayed here are tragic failures.”

John finds himself tripping over his words to overcorrect. “No, I didn’t mean-- of course not, I just meant-- you know, I just meant--”

“Relax, John. Just taking the piss out of you.” She gives him a gentle nudge over the armrest. “Lighten up.”

“Right. Sorry. It’s been… It’s been a day.”

“I can imagine. Sorry about your dad.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” There’s a beat. “So… what have you been up to?”

“The short of it? Graduated, found a teaching job in town, got married, three kids, got divorced, inherited my parents’ old house, couldn’t afford anything better, moved back in, now live in the same house I grew up in, with my oldest daughter living in my old bedroom. Now that I say it out loud, it _does_ sound a bit tragic…”

“Come off it, that sounds… nice, actually.”

“You know, it actually… it actually is. It’s quiet, simple. Quite the opposite of your escapades, or so I’m told.”

“Eh, I’m afraid the rumours of my exploits have been greatly exaggerated.”

“So you didn’t join the Army and get shot in Afghanistan?”

“Well, that bit’s true.”

“You didn’t move to London and become a detective and start solving crimes with Scotland Yard, becoming a minor celebrity and national hero in the process?”

“Guilty as charged on that front, I suppose.”

“And you’re not shacking up with an eccentric _male_ police consultant?”

John’s blood runs cold. “Where did you hear that?” He can’t disguise the sharp edge to the question.

Lindy peers over at him appraisingly, her brown eyes suddenly narrowed. “It’s in the papers. Or at least, the innuendo is there. You’re telling me they’re wrong?”

John purses his lips. “I live with my partner, the one I solve crimes with. That’s all.”

“So he’s your business partner?”

“Yes.”

“And you two never shag?”

“What the fuck kind of question’s that?” John can feel his hackles rising; this wasn’t at all what he expected when he climbed into the car with his old schoolmate.

“The kind of question that will win me twenty quid. A couple of us who knew you back in school took bets about you, when your name started cropping up in the papers a few years back. About whether David Harris was right when he said you only fucked anything with two legs and tits because you were compensating for something.”

John sets his jaw and glares out the window, attempting to calculate how much further until they reach town; as far as he’s concerned, the ride couldn’t be over fast enough. “I wasn’t compensating for anything.”

“So you only shagged your way through every female in our entire class for sport?”

“Look, not that it’s any of your business, but I was going through some shit back then, and having a lot of sex was the way I dealt with it. Was it healthy? No. Was it right? No. Did I hurt a lot of people in the process? Fuck, yes, probably, but I was a goddamn teenager. We all were. I’m a completely different man now.”

Lindy lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, so it seems. Wouldn’t have guessed it, but looking back, makes a lot of sense. You always did like Duran Duran a bit too much.”

“Pull the car over.”

“Oh, come ON, Johnny, we’re just having a few laughs, yeah? Besides, it’s nothing to be ashamed of these days, anyway. Unless you’re the one on the bottom. Are you?”

Mercifully, they’ve just approached the first stop sign within the town limits, and John takes the opportunity to throw open the door and unceremoniously disembark from the car, slamming it behind him and stalking off in the opposite direction.

Behind him, he can hear Lindy call out after him. “Come on, just tell me! I get an extra ten quid if you’re the top!”

He simply throws an obscene hand gesture over his shoulder and blindly pulls open the door of the first shop he comes to.

Well… if he’s perfectly honest, it wasn’t _completely_ luck that the door he pulls open is that of the pub. But that doesn’t matter; he settles himself at the bar, orders a whiskey neat, and proceeds to drown his sorrow.

Lindy Harlow wasn’t cruel. At least, she hadn’t been when they were fifteen. Back then, she’d been warm. Sweet. Not funny, exactly, and she was never part of the ‘in’ crowd, but she’d been pretty enough to be passably popular.

John had taken her virginity one warm August afternoon, up in her bedroom while her parents were out and she was supposed to be watching her little sisters. They’d hung out a few times before then; they were in the same chemistry class at school, and considering their houses were so close together, it wasn’t exactly surprising when Lindy knocked on his door one day with a question about the homework. So they’d studied together that past spring, then occasionally seen each other over the summer, listening to the radio and chatting about nothing in particular.

John hadn’t meant to make it sexual. But back then, _everything_ had somehow been sexual. He _was_ a teenage boy, after all.

But no. Looking back now, that was a pisspoor excuse for his actions. He was an arsehole. There was no other way to say it.

That August afternoon, he’d kissed Lindy while “Lady In Red” played on her wireless radio. He’d pulled down the straps of her sundress and nipped and sucked at her breasts, then slipped his hand into her panties as she gasped and moaned against his neck. And when she told him he’d be her first, he’d been gentle. Patient. Loving. Afterwards, he’d kissed her more and told her he’d call her the next day.

And the rest of the summer, he’d sneak over to her place every night, and they’d have sex (‘make love’ sounded far too romantic in retrospect for their frantic teenage fumblings) in her rickety bed, biting back their moans so as not to wake her parents.

It had been sweet, really.

Well, sweet except perhaps for the part where John was also having sex with Lisa Anderson, who worked as a cashier at the same market where John was bagging groceries on the weekends. 

And the fact that he hadn’t exactly broken up with Claire Whitecombe, who was spending the summer in France with her parents and was John’s _proper_ girlfriend.

So when school resumed in the fall and John was announced captain of the rugby team, president of the debate club, and continued his run as the school’s de-facto golden boy, it was with Claire at his side. He’d never so much as looked twice at Lindy Harlow again. To be honest, he’d all but forgotten about her.

Seems the sentiment didn’t go both ways.

He sighs and signals the barkeep for a refill.

This is exactly why he hates this town.

Because back in his youth, he hadn’t done the things he did out of malevolence or spite. He hadn’t been cruel or calculating in his actions. But he _had_ been selfish. Careless. Conceited. Arrogant. And the worst of it was, the more he displayed those qualities, the more he appeared to be rewarded for them.

His compulsive womanising was revered by his friends. His athletic exploits on the rugby pitch earned him the admiration of his peers. His top marks made him the favourite of teachers. He was one of the _good_ ones. Smart. Successful. Popular.

But it had never quite been enough, had it?

Because none of their approval mattered. All that mattered was the approval of the one person who never gave it: His father.

Nothing that John did was ever good enough for his father. Every achievement was overlooked, while every _tiny_ misstep was a sign that John was _weak_ and _useless._ Even when John graduated at the top of his class and announced he would be attending medical school, his father had met the news with a scowl and a glare and a comment about the “weak-willed sissies” of academia.

John can only remember his father being proud of him on two distinct occasions: when he informed him that he’d enlisted, and when he informed him he’d been deployed. 

It’s only through the lens of years of therapy that John can finally see it now for what it was: How he’d compensated for his distant father by seeking closeness via sexual encounters, how his own lack of self-confidence warped into a misplaced sense of duty and sacrifice, how his fear of disappointing others manifested in a total absence of any sense of self-preservation. From an academic standpoint, he _understands_ all of that.

But it doesn’t mean he’s _over_ it. Those scars run far deeper than the ones that mar his shoulder, the physical manifestation of his willingness to sacrifice.

And that doesn’t even scratch the surface of his conflict over his own sexuality. Yet somehow, until this moment it never occurred to him how deeply he’d internalised every utterance of _faggot, sissy, pouf, fairy,_ and _cocksucker_ that had crossed his father’s lips. How personally he’d taken it when his father accused John of doing anything _like a girl,_ how offensive it felt to be accused of being anything other than the upstanding military man he’d somehow made himself out to be, a _Captain_ through and through. 

Christ. He was even more fucked-up than he thought.

John signals the barkeep again, and drinks up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it’s been a while since you’ve watched the series, the exchange here occurs at the beginning of “The Reichenbach Fall.”

_2012_

_“‘Boffin’? ‘Boffin_ Sherlock Holmes?”

“Everybody gets one.”

“One what?”

“Tabloid nickname. ‘SuBo.’ ‘Nasty Nick.’ Shouldn’t worry, I’ll probably get one soon.”

“Page five, column six, first sentence. Why is it always the hat photograph?”

_“‘Bachelor_ John Watson?”

“What sort of hat is it, anyway?”

_“‘Bachelor’?_ What the hell are they implying?”

“Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?”

“It’s a deerstalker. _‘Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson…’”_

“You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do, throw it?”

_“‘CONFIRMED bachelor_ John Watson’? Okay, this is too much. We’ve got to be more careful.”

“What do you mean, ‘more careful’?”

“I mean this isn’t a deerstalker now; it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you’re not exactly a _private_ detective any more. You’re _this far_ from famous.”

“Oh, it’ll pass.”

“It’d _better_ pass. The press _will_ turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on _you.”_

“It really bothers you.”

“What?”

“What people say.”

“Yes.”

“About me? I don’t understand – why would it upset _you?”_

The question had caught John off guard.

He’d deflected, at the time. Made it seem as if he was only referring to the Work. That what concerned him about the entire situation was that their newfound fame would blow their cover, compromise their anonymity, make it harder to do the down and dirty legwork often required to cut through the bone and gristle and expose the gory heart of a case.

But deep down, he suspected that Sherlock knew damn well that that wasn’t what bothered him about what the papers were writing. 

Of course the Work was important. Of course keeping a low profile was paramount to the longevity of their success.

But if he’d been honest with himself, what bothered John wasn’t the deerstalker or the simpering accolades or the fawning reporters or the fickle nature of public opinion.

It was that _word: Bachelor. Bachelor. Bachelor._

It certainly didn’t help that the events of the night before were still fresh in John’s mind, and they’d left him feeling exposed, anxious, on-edge.

His physical relationship with Sherlock wasn’t exactly new at that point. They’d taken up with each other shortly after the events of Bond Air, and they’d reached a new level of intimacy following their case and subsequent mini-break in Cornwall. In the weeks since then, their sexual encounters had continued in much the same fashion: frenzied, torrid affairs that ended as abruptly as they’d begun, heavy with awkward silences and averted gazes, shrouded in secrecy and unspoken words. 

But that was fine. It was all fine. They were simply meeting their needs. That was all.

Sherlock had recently solved the Peter Ricoletti case. There was nothing inherently special about that case or its conclusion: Sherlock had tracked down the elusive perp, they’d cornered him in his bolthole, the authorities staged a timely intervention, and Ricoletti had been brought into custody without incident. Following the inevitable press conference, he and Sherlock been gifted an obscenely expensive bottle of Scotch from their liaison at Interpol, and John (still giddy with the high of another case under their belts) had suggested that it would be terribly ironic and incredibly hilarious if he and Sherlock drank the entire thing whilst eating pizza and watching the Eurovision broadcast on the telly later that evening. Sherlock had amicably agreed.

So they’d proceeded to get truly and properly pissed for the first time in ages, stuffing themselves with greasy pizza from the hole-in-the-wall pie joint down the street while Sherlock entertained John with his deductions about the contestants on the telly, and John dazzled Sherlock with his rather dynamic critical analysis following each performance. The whole evening is a bit of a blur in John’s memory, but he does recall laughing so hard his sides ached and he felt his face would split, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes as Sherlock rattled off the relationship status of the entire legion from Spain as he sashayed around the room.

It was just a bit of good fun, that was all. Plain and simple.

So when, a few hours in, they were both bleary-eyed and wheezing side-by-side on the sofa during a commercial break and Sherlock had unceremoniously dropped to his knees in front of John and said, “I want you to fuck my face,” John had initially been _fairly_ certain he’d misheard him.

He blinked twice and peered down at Sherlock. “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock met John’s gaze unwaveringly. “I want you to fuck my face.”

There was no mistaking what he’d said this time. John’s thoughts were spinning a thousand miles a minute, and he found himself suddenly incapable of mustering a coherent response.

Sherlock remained undeterred and seemed to mistake John’s silence for incomprehension, endeavouring to elaborate further. “I want you to stand up, stick your cock down my throat, and fuck my face, _hard._ Don’t stop until you come.”

Despite the fact that John’s brain was still struggling to wrap itself around the concept, it turned out that his cock had _no_ trouble whatsoever processing the command. Before he knew what he was doing, he was up on his feet, unfastening his flies and giving his hardening length a few perfunctory strokes as Sherlock stared up at him, wetting his lips and opening his mouth wide. It was the most erotic thing John had ever seen.

Up until that point, their sexual encounters had been… well, not exactly _tame,_ but well within the boundaries of what John considered to be ‘normal’ sex. While they were both still getting used to the ins and outs of anal sex on the rare occurrence they had it, for the most part they stuck to blow jobs, hand jobs, frottage, and the occasional session of mutual masturbation. And while it had all been _incredibly_ hot, there had been nothing in their current repertoire that John considered _deviant_ by any stretch of the phrase.

But then Sherlock had gotten on his knees in front of John, stared up at him with those pristine jade-green eyes, so clear and intense that John felt utterly exposed, and uttered those fateful words: _I want you to fuck my face._

Because that was the moment that things _changed_ between them. In retrospect, knowing what he knows now, John can point to that encounter as the first time they experimented with _power dynamics,_ but back then all he knew is that what Sherlock was asking of him was something _different._ Something _dark,_ something _strange,_ something well beyond the boundaries of _normal._

But this was Sherlock, after all.

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised.

Of course, in the moment he didn’t take the time to quantify or rationalise any of it-- he never did back then, before one of their _encounters._ He simply stood up, pressed his turgid member between those plush cupid’s-bow lips, tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s messy curls, and began to thrust with delirious abandon.

It was a sensation unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Up until that point, he’d always been a conscientious, respectful lover, often so preoccupied with his partner’s satisfaction that his own was scarcely more than an afterthought. To a degree, that’s what he loved about sex: the surge of pride it gave him when he rendered another person incapacitated with pleasure, the privilege of watching all barriers come crashing down as his partner orgasmed, lost in the throes of ecstasy. That, to John, had always been what sex was about.

It wasn’t that all the sex he’d ever had up until that point had been _tame._ He’d been with some girls-- women-- who were (in his opinion at the time) kinky: who liked to have their wrists held down, or be taken roughly from behind, and of course there was the one who couldn’t get off unless he called her filthy names while she rode him to completion. But with the partners he didn’t know well he was always respectfully cautious, and with the ones he _did_ know well he’d never thought to ask for something like this, out of the fear of appearing disrespectful or opportunistic.

But then Sherlock got on his knees, and _asked him for it._

And John delivered.

He’s never been able to describe how it felt, that first time. There were the physical sensations, of course: the pressure of Sherlock’s lips wrapped tight around his shaft, the zing of pleasure each time the head of his cock slammed against the back of Sherlock’s throat, the slick coat of saliva that coated his member and (much to his delight) trickled from the sides of Sherlock’s mouth. There was the way Sherlock’s eyes teared up as he choked and gasped around John’s length, the quiet desperation the high, needy whines that escaped him as John ravaged his mouth, how his eyelids would flutter shut each time John yanked roughly at his tousled locks. The way Sherlock clasped his hands obediently behind his back as he let John use him, surrendering entirely to John’s desires.

But none of that compared to what John felt inside. It was as if some secret, guarded part of him was suddenly unleashed, consuming him with the desire to _dominate_ and _command._ To have Sherlock there at his feet, all sweet supplication and pliant pleas, God, it had been a rush unlike anything John Watson had ever experienced before.

He didn’t warn Sherlock before he came. Before that night, they’d always been diligent to warn each other prior to climaxing when they were engaging in oral sex; John was still fairly new to performing fellatio and he wasn’t particularly keen on the taste, and as such, it seemed only fair that he should extend the same courtesy to Sherlock.

But that night, when he’d felt the heat coiling deep in his belly, he’d simply gripped Sherlock’s hair even harder and thrust deeper and more vigorously, prompting the most wanton moan he’d ever heard Sherlock utter. When he came, he’d locked Sherlock’s head firmly in place and pushed himself so far down his throat, his pubis was pressed ruthlessly against Sherlock’s nose. He could hear Sherlock gasp and choke as he deepthroated him, followed by a soft moan as he swallowed eagerly around John’s spasming prick. It felt transcendent.

As the euphoric haze dissipated, for a moment, John had panicked. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? He was used to worshipping his lovers, guiding them tenderly, earnestly to completion before seeking his own release. What the hell was he supposed to do for the man who’d just taken the most violent face-fucking John had ever dared to indulge in? Surely Sherlock didn’t expect him to... return the favour?

It turned out he needn’t have worried. As he stood there, mute and shell-shocked and quivering in the aftermath, Sherlock had simply pulled away from John’s spent member, rested his forehead against John’s leg, pulled his own cock out of his trousers, and jerked himself off. It didn’t take long; it couldn’t have been more than ten strokes before he went rigid and sank his teeth lightly into the denim of John’s jeans with a brittle, helpless cry. John just gently carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as the pleasure wracked his body, gentling him through the aftershocks as best he could.

Everything after that was a bit blurry. John dimly recalls them both flopping back onto the sofa, sweaty and spent, and watching the remainder of the programme. They’d toasted the winner (Azerbaijan?) and then retired to their separate bedrooms, as was their custom at the time. John had fallen into a deep, dreamless, drunken sleep.

The next morning had been predictably unpleasant, but a couple of Paracetamol and one of Mrs. H’s famous fry-ups had at least gotten them back in decent enough shape to be able to dress themselves and make it to their noon appointment at the Yard to finish up a few remaining pieces of paperwork. On the way home, John had picked up a couple of newspapers (“Third-party opinions help me add a bit of colour to the blog,” he’d explained to an exasperated Sherlock), and then he’d put on the kettle, poured them both a cuppa, and sat down to read.

Which is when Sherlock took issue with his newly-appointed title. And pointed out that John had one of his own.

_Bachelor._

But of course, John pretended that his only qualm was with the fickle nature of fame, not the fact that the press seemed to have caught on to the nature of his own relationship with Sherlock faster than he had.

Because the night before, they’d crossed a line, into something deep and new and dangerous. And as much as John wanted to simply write it off as a drunken misstep, he knew damn well that wasn’t what it had been. There was no turning back from this.

Hell, didn’t _want_ to turn back from this.

So he simply said, “We’ve got to be more careful.”

And Sherlock said, “Why would it upset _you?”_

_Why,_ indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock is a vision as he disembarks onto the train platform.

Well, perhaps he’s not a _vision_ in the way John usually qualifies him as a vision, all aloof stoicism with his coat collar popped up to accentuate his razor-sharp cheekbones, composed charisma oozing from each effortless movement. Today he’s a bit of a fumbling mess, doing his best to balance Rosie on one hip whilst hoisting her pram and his suitcase simultaneously with his spare hand. He lands on the platform with all the grace of a drunken sailor, and the language emanating from his mouth to match.

“Sherlock, _language.”_

And then Sherlock rights himself and turns around and their eyes meet and there, _there,_ that’s the vision that makes John’s heart clench and sends shivers up and down his spine as Sherlock’s hair whips in the brisk January air, jade eyes bright and piercing in the clear morning sunshine. God, he is _beautiful._

And Rosie beside him, an earth-bound angel, her blonde ringlets a halo mashed beneath her panda bear knit cap, cheeks a petal pink, blue eyes wide and inquiring.

His family. They are so _perfect._

In three strides John is beside them, pulling them both into his arms. Sherlock looks momentarily surprised but quickly leans into the embrace as Rosie emits an elated “Adda!” and plants a wet kiss against John’s cheek. John holds them both close, and breathes.

How wonderfully strange it is, he thinks. That only two short years ago, to hold Sherlock like this was stiff and foreign, and now it feels as natural as breathing. His form is so sturdy and familiar in John’s arms, his smell an elixir to the steady buzz of anxiety plaguing John’s brain. Everything about him emanates the comforting reminder of _home,_ and it pulls John out of the grim half-life he’s been suspended in since he returned to this godforsaken town. This village isn’t his home anymore: _Home_ is Rosie and Sherlock and London and Baker Street. All of that was waiting for him. He just needed to get through this.

He finally pulls back, and he and Sherlock share a slightly awkward moment as John is struck by the urge to kiss him, resists it, and settles for a smile he’s fairly certain is a grimace instead. Sherlock gives him a tight smile in return, and the silence hangs heavily in the air.

“So, my loves! How was your train ride?” John holds out his arms to take Rosie, and Sherlock regains control of the pram and suitcase as they make their way towards the car.

“We saw cows!” Rosie is beyond jubilation.

“You did?!” John widens his eyes in feigned surprise. “And what do cows say?”

“Moo.” Rosie’s response is surprisingly stoic.

“That’s right, Rose. Now what _types_ of cows did we see?” Sherlock’s tone is formal and even; he _never_ baby-talks to Rosie, a fact which humours John to no end.

“Angus, Devon, and, and, and... Assur.”

“Ayshire, that’s correct. And which was your favourite?”

“Devon. Dey’re fuzzy!”

“They are! And do you remember my favourite?”

“Angus. Because dey’re all bwack and you tink dat looks neat.” Rosie seems excessively pleased with herself.

John does his best to hide his surprise as he glances over at Sherlock’s smug expression. “You taught her _types_ of cattle? You know, most kids her age are barely mastering their ABCs.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, most kids are being raised by witless imbeciles who drastically underestimate their capacity to process complex categorisations. I’m just making sure she’s being challenged.”

Again, John has to fight off the urge to reach over and snog him silly right there in the middle of the car park. As it stands, he settles instead for shooting him a lopsided smile, which he’s pleased to see Sherlock return. God, it was good to see him.

“So Mum’s asked that we bring Rosie to the house straight away-- I think she’s looking for a distraction from everything. Mind if we drop her off before we head to the inn?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Fine by me. My schedule is shockingly open.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to bide your time. Uncover a sinister underground smuggling ring at the tea shop. Reveal the secret identity of our eight-term mayor. Identify signs of the occult hidden in the vestments at church.”

Sherlock puts on his most innocent expression. “I’ve no idea what you’re going on about, John, it’s not as if I go _looking_ for trouble--”

“Yeah, yeah, it just has a way of _finding_ you. Can I at least request that you refrain from exhuming any bodies at the cemetery without a warrant? I’d personally like to avoid being run out of town with pitchforks before Dad’s body’s even cold.”

Sherlock snickers. “As you wish, _Captain.”_

Since John had arrived home, there’d been a revolving door of family, friends, and well-wishers cycling through his mother’s house, and today is no exception. Judging by the cars in the drive, today’s guests include Aunt Flo, Father Malloy, Sheila and Arthur (Arthur had been a Major in the Army, and always loved swapping stories with John when they ran into one another at the pub), Beatrice Northrup (his mother’s best friend since they were schoolgirls), and two more vehicles whose inhabitants John’s yet to associate with their respective cars. 

As they make their way up the path to the front door, John toting Rosie’s bag and pram and Sherlock carrying her in his arms, John has to bite his tongue to keep himself from reminding Sherlock to _behave._ Sherlock’s gotten much better about keeping himself in check in the past year or so, but large groups of strangers were still a rather dicey proposition and tended to bring out the worst in him. Even so, John reminds himself of what Sherlock told him during one of their counselling sessions: Sherlock knows damn well how to behave, and he does his best when he has the emotional bandwidth to do so. But some days it’s just _beyond_ his capacity, and there’s nothing John can do or say to change that, so John needn’t treat him like a child and constantly remind him to _mind his manners._

So John just takes a deep breath and repeats his mantra: _It is what it is._

John’s mother’s eyes light up the moment they walk through the door. “Oh, there’s my darling Rosie! Just _look_ at you, love, how big you’ve grown!”

Rosie seems suddenly stricken with a rather uncharacteristic bout of shyness (presumably brought on by the staggering number of people stuffed into the sitting room) and buries her face in Sherlock’s neck. He just smiles and bounces her gently on his hip before murmuring, “Can you say hello to Gran?” low in Rosie’s ear. She shakes her head and burrows deeper, and Sherlock gives a helpless shrug. “Sorry. Been a long day already, we caught an early train. She probably could use a nap.”

John’s mother is on her feet at once. “Of course, I have her crib all set up, right this way.” She ushers Sherlock and Rosie out of the room, and John offers a tight smile to the multitude of faces turned his way. “Morning, everyone. Would anybody like a cuppa?”

Twenty minutes and three full kettles later, John is seated next to Sherlock on the loveseat nursing a much-needed cup of tea while doing his best to politely field the seemingly endless string of inquiries being flung in their direction. He knows it’s nothing personal: He admittedly hasn’t visited particularly often since he left for the war, and when he did, he rarely went out to socialise around town. He vaguely recalls seeing his aunt and a few of his parents’ friends at their anniversary party a few years back, but he’d been so busy hosting he hadn’t had much time to socialise.

“Your mother mentioned you still play rugby in a veteran’s league, John? You were always such a star out on the pitch in school, most of us were surprised you never gave it a go professionally.” Beatrice’s voice is cloyingly sweet.

John shakes his head with a dismissive chuckle. “Nah, I’m far to small for the pros.”

“Besides,” interrupts Arthur, “he wanted to do his duty and serve his country, just like his old man. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

John offers him a tight-lipped smile. “Absolutely.”

“And you, Sherlock. Did you serve as well? Is that how you and John met?”

Oh, Christ. John internally braces himself.

“No, we met after John returned from his tour. We met at St. Bart’s, in London.”

“The hospital? Are you a doctor? I thought John said you worked with the police force?” Arthur seems understandably confused.

Sherlock shifts and crosses his legs, taking a measured sip of tea. He is the epitome of composure; John’s relief feels palpable. “I do work with the police, but more on the forensic side of things. Where policework and science intersect, as it were.”

Arthur gives a stern nod of approval: a scientist aligned with the police force was apparently an acceptably worthwhile profession. “And John, that’s how you came to work with the police as well? It’s good to see so many of our men in uniform finding ways to utilise their skills back on the home front.”

John nods amicably. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Sherlock, dear, are you married?” Sheila casts an appraising look at him, and John can feel his own hackles rise slightly. He can’t tell whether she’s asking out of sincere interest, or whether she’d taken note of Sherlock’s impeccable suit, well-coiffed hair, and spotless shoes and jumped to a few conclusions on her own.

“No.” Sherlock doesn’t elaborate. He simply takes another sip of tea.

“Oh, that’s rather a shame. What about you, John? Put any more thought into dating again?”

“Oh, Sheila, lay off him, the man’s just lost his wife!” Arthur seems appropriately mortified at his wife’s meddling.

“Nonsense, it’s been over two years! A man of his standing and with such a young daughter oughtn’t be left to his own devices for long.”

“Rosie and I are getting on just fine, Sheila.”

“And I’m sure having Sherlock to help around the house eases the load a bit, eh?” Beatrice shoots John a pointed look.

There’s a strange sort of stillness that settles over the room. John’s not sure how much his mother has told any of them about his current situation, and he suddenly feels simultaneously hot and cold all over. Beside him, he can feel Sherlock stiffen.

“Beatrice! _Not in front of Father Malloy.”_ His mother hisses the admonishment across the room, her tone stern and cold.

There’s a beat. Sheila blinks and looks at Sherlock again. “You… help out around the house?”

Sherlock meets her gaze evenly. “Yes. We live together. Seems only natural I ought to pitch in occasionally.”

“The two of you live together?” Father Malloy is staring at John as if John’s just grown a second head. They’re the first words Father Malloy has contributed to the conversation, and John feels vaguely incensed by this fact.

“Yes. We do.” John’s answer is curt.

Father Malloy eyes Sherlock appraisingly. “And you’re involved in raising the child?”

Sherlock remains undeterred. “Rosie? Yes. After all, she lives with us as well. Not sure if you’ve spent much time with three year olds, but they’re rather hard to avoid in the best of circumstances whilst occupying a small space. I’m afraid my influence has been quite unavoidable.”

John fights back the snicker that’s threatening to erupt in reaction to Sherlock’s drawling nonchalance of feigned obliviousness at the insinuations being made. Instead, he simply rises to his feet and deposits his cup and saucer on the coffee table. “Well. It’s been lovely catching up, but I’m going to drive Sherlock into town to get settled at the inn. I’m sure I’ll see you all soon.” He pauses only to press a dry kiss against his mother’s cheek before striding out into the frigid air. 

Bollocks, he’d forgotten his coat. Nothing for it, though-- it would take nothing short of wild horses to drag him back into that interrogation. Instead, he stalks off to the car and waits impatiently in the passenger seat for Sherlock, who’s still struggling to pull on his coat and scarf as he adjusts to their abrupt departure.

The first few minutes of the car ride are silent. Finally, John speaks.

“Sorry about that.” John feels utterly resigned.

“About what?” John can’t decipher Sherlock’s tone. He’s being guarded.

“About… all the questions.”

Sherlock shrugs. “They don’t bother me. After all, I’m not the one with something to hide.”

John grits his teeth. “I’m not _hiding_ anything. I’m just saying, I don’t bring up other people’s love lives in casual conversations with them when we haven’t so much as crossed paths in years. It’s bloody _invasive_ is what it is. ‘How’s work? How’s your daughter? And are you getting laid regularly? Yes? By whom?’”

Sherlock actually laughs at that, and John can feel some of the tension between them melt away. “And now you know why I detest social gatherings. And small talk. And gossip. And bleak villages in the countryside where there’s nothing to do but nose about in the business of others. That’s what makes London so magnificent: the complete, unassailable anonymity. That you can disappear on a city sidewalk one day and no one will be any the wiser. That you can dress how you like and fuck who you want and tattoo the word ‘FREAK’ your forehead if it suits you, and no one will even bat an eye, because it’s of no consequence to them. It’s a beautiful, liberating selfishness, and one to which I’m afraid I’ve become quite accustomed.” He pauses to pull at his gloves, flexing his fingers experimentally as if testing them for fit. “The fact I’m even here is scarcely short of a miracle.”

John reaches over and takes his hand, and for a moment, their eyes meet. “I’m so, so glad you are, love.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock just shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the road.

The room isn’t ready yet when they arrive at the inn, so John takes Sherlock on a walking tour of High Street, pointing out relics from his childhood and sharing anecdotes about his past exploits there. Sherlock seems to be in decent spirits, to John’s immense relief; things had still been tense between them at Baker Street before he’d left, and he’s glad that Sherlock seems willing to put all that aside for the time being. As it stands, they pass a perfectly pleasant afternoon in town, barring the fact that John all but freezes his bollocks off without his coat (at one point Sherlock offers to let John borrow his, and for a moment they pause in contemplation of what a _ridiculous_ sight that would be, John swimming in a coat nearly taller than he was himself, and dissolve into a hysterical bout of giggles that ceases only once they’re seated comfortably at the pub, working their way through a shared Ploughman’s Lunch and a pair of pints).

They eventually make their way back to the inn and John accompanies Sherlock to the room, sprawling out on the bed as Sherlock occupies himself poking about the place, undoubtedly deducing the histories of the last five occupants at once. John stares blankly at the ceiling, letting some of the week’s tension slowly fade away. Just being in Sherlock’s presence is inexplicably soothing, a touchstone of normalcy he’d been sorely missing since he arrived here.

“The service will be on Saturday,” John says to the ceiling.

“Alright.”

“I’m supposed to give a eulogy.”

There’s a pause. “What are you going to say?”

John bites his lip. “Dunno. Suppose ‘Good riddance’ might be a bit too on the head, hm?”

Sherlock chuckles, and John feels the bed dip as Sherlock lays down beside him. “Sounds perfect to me. Short, sweet, to the point. Plus, it would give everyone something to talk about besides your sex life.”

John sighs. “I don’t… Christ, I don’t even know where to start with this, Sherlock. My dad was… I mean, I know I never talked about him much, but he was… not a good man. Not really. It’s… it’s difficult for me to discuss because I think I repressed a lot of it, but you should know… you should know that he…” John finds he suddenly can’t speak around the lump in his throat.

He feels Sherlock’s pinky finger hook over his where their hands rest millimeters apart on the ancient embroidered duvet. “You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, John.”

“... You already know, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I had some hypothesis all along based on your past behaviour. Then seeing your childhood home today confirmed what I’d long suspected.”

John lets out a dry laugh. “‘Course it did. Alright, then. Tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“Tell me how you figured it all out. Dazzle me.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and begins. “Your aversion to drinking was my first clue. You have a conflicted relationship with alcohol, and the fact that your sister is a full-blown alcoholic was indicative of a deeper underlying cause. Harry’s pattern of recovery and relapse is textbook for the child of an alcoholic, and your tendency to use alcohol exclusively as a way to avoid negative or complex emotions further validated my theory. That you go through long spells where you swear off the stuff altogether before slipping back off the wagon is an obvious red flag.”

“Simple enough, that. What else?”

“When I was in the kitchen of your mother’s house helping you with the tea today, I noticed that the handle of the cabinet above the refrigerator was more worn than any of the others. It’s in a high, out-of-reach location, perfect for keeping something away from young children, something like liquor. But for a cabinet so difficult to access, the fact that it showed more signs of wear than the cabinet storing the plates is indicative that it was opened multiple times on a daily basis.”

John chuckles. “That one’s a stretch, but I’ll allow it.”

“Well, _is_ that where your father kept his stash?”

“Yes.”

“Then my conclusion can hardly be considered a stretch at all.”

“Fine. What else?”

“Nearly every piece of furniture in the sitting room and dining room has been repaired at least once. The cracks are small, but the wood glue was applied inexpertly at best, and the signs of damage are obvious to anyone looking out for it. Your father was not only a drunk, but a destructive one at that.”

“And?”

“Mismatched plates and cups in the kitchen, not a full set of any one thing. And the wedding china in the buffet in the dining room featured three dinner plates, nine salad plates, four wine goblets, eight water glasses, a gravy boat but no butter dish, a cream pitcher but no sugar bowl, five teacups, one saucer, and nary a teapot in sight. Presumably at one point twelve full place settings existed, but enough has been broken over the years that all that’s left behind is a hodgepodge of what little was spared.”

John swallows hard. He feels shockingly vulnerable, exposed beneath Sherlock’s unassailable powers of observation. “...And?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “To be honest, John, I saw everything I needed to know six years ago when you sprained your wrist.”

John furrows his brow. During a case, he’d jammed his arm during a high-speed chase, and he’d gone to the A&E for a routine x-ray to be sure nothing was broken. Sherlock had accompanied him at the time, but he has no idea what Sherlock would have seen that would have given him any insight into John’s past.

“I saw on the x-ray that there was a healed break from an injury when you were young. Probably nine? Ten?”

John suddenly feels cold all over as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. “Ten.”

“The angle of the break reveals that it was caused by torque, not impact. A twisting of the arm. Textbook.”

“Textbook.”

There’s an infinite pause.

“That was the only time he ever really hurt one of us. Ever laid his hands on one of us. After it happened, Mum said she’d leave him if he ever did it again. So he didn’t. Just stuck to bashing up the furniture after that. So Mum stayed with him. Didn’t stop him from screaming at us and threatening us, but I guess she figured that wasn’t so bad.”

He can feel Sherlock shift and turn onto his side to wrap his arm around John, pressing a soft kiss to John’s shoulder. More silence.

When Sherlock finally speaks, his voice is a low rumble. “I know now is when most people would say, ‘I’m sorry,’ but I’ve never really understood why. Why do people apologise for things they’re not responsible for?”

John shrugs and brings Sherlock’s palm up to his lips to kiss it. “Dunno. Maybe because there’s nothing else to say that seems right. It’s just a way of saying, ‘I feel for you,’ I guess.”

“Oh. Then, I’m sorry.”

John rolls onto his side to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Gently, he leans forward and kisses Sherlock, slow and deep and imbibed with meaning. Even if Sherlock already knew everything John had just told him, something about having it all out in the open feels as though an oppressive weight has been lifted off of him, and John feels like he can properly breathe again for the first time in days.

Sherlock hums eagerly into his mouth and cups John’s jaw tenderly in his hand, deepening the kiss. John brings his hand to Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies are aligned, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis, thigh to thigh, their legs and feet a messy tangle as they slowly begin to press against one another in slow, rhythmic undulations, the sensation of their mutual erections swelling to full hardness heady and irresistable. 

John tugs lightly at the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, untucking it from his trousers, and snakes his hand up until he finds Sherlock’s right nipple, which he takes between his thumb and index finger and begins to pinch and pluck. Sherlock gasps and shudders against him, and John chuckles as he feels Sherlock’s cock throb in response. In retaliation, Sherlock reaches around to firmly grip John’s arsecheek, pulling his pelvis forward to grind demandingly against him. They both let out low moans as the their arousal escalates, breaths coming fast and uneven between frantic kisses, and John can only hold out a minute more before rolling Sherlock onto his back and climbing on top of him, slotting himself between Sherlock’s eagerly-spread legs.

“Oh, _God--”_ Sherlock’s cry emerges as a bitten-off plea as John hikes up Sherlock’s shirt to expose his chest, pale and muscular and _perfect,_ his nipples puckered tight from John’s ministrations. John simply wags his eyebrows mischievously before dipping his head to nibble at one of them, grinning to himself as Sherlock arches and moans, pushing his pec up into John’s hungry mouth. John flicks his tongue over the hardened nub as he gives the other a firm twist with his fingers, and Sherlock buries his fingers in John’s hair before tipping his pelvis back, giving John the access to frot against his infuriatingly trouser-clad arse.

John can only stand a minute or two of dry humping Sherlock’s pert cheeks before losing his patience altogether. Relinquishing his grip on Sherlock’s nipples, he pulls himself up onto his knees to stare down at Sherlock, lips plush and wet and pupils blown wide with lust. “Clothes off. Now.”

From there it’s a rather undignified scramble (exacerbated further by a brief moment of panic when John couldn’t find the lube in its standard place-- the side pocket of Sherlock’s suitcase-- necessitating a frantic dismantling of Sherlock’s toiletries kit before the missing bottle was located), but soon enough they’re back under the covers, John rocking earnestly against Sherlock as beneath him, Sherlock arches and bucks.

“God, fuck, Sherlock, missed you so much, _fuck…”_ John thrusts his cock vigorously against Sherlock’s, the sensation of their hardnesses rubbing against one another intoxicatingly consuming. It’s been far, _far_ too long since they did this. “Mmmm, Christ, can I fuck you?”

Sherlock stares up at him, jade-green eyes eager and imploring. “Yes, please, John…” He spreads his legs wider and bites his lip, looking every bit as frantic as John’s currently feeling.

John locates the lube and squeezes some onto his fingers, then reaches down between them to Sherlock’s entrance, bracing himself to hover over Sherlock with his spare arm. Slowly, he traces his rim three times before slipping two fingers inside.

“Ah!” Sherlock shivers and tenses, eyes slamming shut and hands flying to John’s biceps, which he grips with all of his considerable strength.

“Alright?”

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and shifts a bit. “Yes, yes, just… the lube’s cold, and it’s… nnngh, it’s been a while.”

John leans down to pepper his face with kisses as he slowly begins to maneuver his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s tight channel, scissoring them slightly on the outstroke. “Mmm, okay, we’ll take it nice and slow, yeah? Get you ready to take me?”

“God, yes, John…” Sherlock sounds wrecked, and John chuckles to himself as he continues to prep him ever so slowly, all while pressing chaste, adoring kisses down the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbones, across his forehead and down his neck before pausing to nibble and suck at his left earlobe. He can feel Sherlock begin to relax, and before too long, he adds a third finger alongside the first two, and he can hear Sherlock sigh contentedly.

“Mmm, does that feel good?” He twists his fingers and prods gently at Sherlock’s prostate, and he can feel Sherlock’s cock jump in response.

“Fuck, _yes,_ John, I’m… I’m ready, I’m ready, please…”

“You sure?” John asks teasingly as he presses against Sherlock’s perineum with his thumb, giving himself more leverage to stimulate his prostate.

“GAH! John, don’t-- Nnnnnngh, don’t be obtuse, just-- Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!-- Christ, just _fuck_ me already!”

John laughs as he takes an appraising look down at Sherlock’s cock, which he’s pleased to see is rock-hard and leaking precome onto Sherlock’s quivering abs. “Alright, then. Your wish is my command.” With that, he withdraws his fingers and grabs the lube, slicking up his own turgid member before reaching down to grasp Sherlock by the ankles. He lifts up Sherlock’s legs to prop his ankles on his shoulders, tilting Sherlock’s pelvis back, giving John unfettered access to that most intimate place inside of him. 

Beneath him, Sherlock moans in anticipation. John turns his head to the side to press a light kiss against Sherlock’s anklebone, then lines up his cock and surges forward.

John’s eyes roll back in his head as he feels his cock enveloped by the perfect, vise-tight heat of Sherlock’s channel. He thrusts in and out a few times to acclimate himself before he’s even able to look down to see how Sherlock is faring.

His face is a picture of ecstatic bliss. John’s always been floored by just how much Sherlock enjoys being penetrated; for John, the act was tolerable enough, but he can’t quite comprehend just how _good_ it makes Sherlock feel. But far be it from him to question it-- he’s more than happy to remain on the providing end of this particular equation.

“Mmm, Sherlock, you feel amazing. Does this feel alright?” He thrusts a bit harder, gauging Sherlock’s tolerance. After all, it _had_ been awhile since they’ve had penetrative intercourse, and he doesn’t want to push him too hard.

Sherlock twists his hands into the bedsheets and tips his head back, breath coming in heavy pants. “God, yes, feels… feels good, John, feels… so good…”

“Mmmm, good…” And with that, John leans forward, bending Sherlock nearly in half as he captures his lips in his own and proceeds to plunder his body with voracious enthusiasm. 

Sherlock takes everything John is giving him and then some, rocking his hips back enthusiastically to allow John deeper access. John groans as he sinks further into his passage, and Sherlock grins up at him, his eyes bright and alight with pleasure.

All too soon, John’s forced to prop himself up on his hands again. “Nnngh, fuck, can’t last much longer. Touch yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock nods frantically, and his hands fly to his cock, his left fondling his balls as his right strips his shaft in fast, desperate strokes.

“Oh, God, yeah, that’s it…” John stares down at where they’re joined, Sherlock’s nimble fingers working himself over with expert precision as John’s length disappears over and over inside him in a mesmerizing rhythm.

“Oh! John! Oh! Oh!” 

John can feel Sherlock’s body begin to bow and tense, and he focuses every ounce of energy he has on pummeling his prostate directly, urging him towards release.

“OH! OH! John, John, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m-- OHHHHH!” 

John watches transfixed as Sherlock’s cock begins to spurt pulse after pulse of come up his abdomen, Sherlock shaking violently with the effort, muscles spasming seductively around John’s throbbing prick.

“Ohhhhh, ahhhh….” Sherlock all but _melts_ back into the mattress as John finally tears his gaze away from his cock to look Sherlock in the eye. He looks criminally content.

“God, that was gorgeous.” John leans down and licks into his mouth. Sherlock opens himself to John’s advances and John indulges himself for a moment, pressing his tongue deep inside, lapping gently against Sherlock’s tongue in turn. Sherlock’s body feels beautifully relaxed, spent and sated, and John takes a moment to enjoy the satisfaction of having pleased him so completely.

His cock, however, has other interests, and before too long he’s forced to pull away and resume thrusting desperately into Sherlock’s willing form.

“Oh! Oh, God, yeah… Yeah, you feel so good, OH! Oh, yeah…” The words feel tight in his throat, and the pace of his thrusts increases.

Sherlock lets out a low, languid moan as John has his way with him, and a moment later John sits back on his heels, grips Sherlock by the hips, and proceeds to ream him with all of his remaining strength.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Sherlock’s uttering a high, light noise somewhere between a gasp and a cry with every snap of John’s hips, and the helpless sound sends a signal straight to John’s lizard-brain. Sherlock is _his, his_ alone, John made him _come,_ and now John’s going to _finish inside him,_ in that private place that only _John_ has touched, that only _John_ gets to use like this, only _John_ gets to come in Sherlock’s gorgeous _virgin_ arsehole and _oh, oh, oh--_

“OH! OH! OH! NGGGAAAAAH!” With one final, heroic effort, John grinds brutally up into Sherlock’s hole and spills in hot waves that seem to go on and on forever, pulling him out over the horizon and into a beautiful, blissful nothing.

**********

He wakes with a start, and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. It’s dusk, the room dim and full of shadows in the hazy evening twilight. He and Sherlock are tangled together beneath the sheets, sticky with a sheen dried sweat and saliva and come, and John winces as he pulls himself into a seated position to flick on the bedside lamp.

“Mph. What time is it?” Sherlock’s voice is muffled as he burrows further into the pillow.

John hazards a glance at the clock. “Shit. Little after five.” He clambers clumsily to his feet and staggers to the bathroom, switching on the tap to wet a flannel and make a hasty attempt at wiping himself down. Resigned, he gives it up as a lost cause and hangs the flannel off the edge of the sink and returns to the room, fumbling for his clothes.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock rolls over to face him and blinks up at him owlishly as John pulls on his pants and trousers.

“Back to the house.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Aren’t you staying here tonight?”

John shakes his head and yanks his vest on before scanning the room for his discarded shirt, which he finds hanging haphazardly off the armchair. “No, I’m staying at Mum’s with Rosie.” He’s not quite sure what Sherlock isn’t grasping about this plan.

Sherlock slowly rises to sit cross-legged on the bed, looking uncharacteristically youthful with his hair in disarray, shoulders hunched as he peers up at John appraisingly. “You’re… so you and Rosie are staying at your mother’s, and I’m staying here?”

John sits down on the end of the bed to pull on his socks. “Well, yeah. Mum needs me around right now for support.”

“So why can’t I stay there with you, since Rosie’s there too?”

John has to stop himself from pinching the bridge of his nose, opting instead to lace up his shoe. “Because with me in one bedroom and Harry in the other, we haven’t got a bedroom to spare.”

There’s a long pause. “You don’t want me sleeping with you.”

John bites back a groan and rises to his feet. Why the hell did Sherlock have to make an issue out of _everything?_ “It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with you, Sherlock. But right now, I need to take care of my mum.”

“And you don’t want her to know that we sleep together.”

“To be honest, Sherlock? No, I don’t. Because first of all, it’s none of her business. And second of all, if she did find out, it would become a _thing,_ and the last thing I want to deal with right now is another goddamn _thing._ There’s enough shit going on without my mother having a breakdown over my immortal soul.”

“So where the hell does she think I sleep at Baker Street? Does she think I kip on the sofa, or that I’ve got a lilo stashed under your bed that I pull out at night?”

“I don’t know what she thinks, Sherlock, because I’ve never asked her, because it doesn’t _fucking matter.”_ John doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but honestly, the last thing he needs right now is Sherlock dredging this all up again.

Sherlock glares belligerent up at him. “Of course it _doesn’t matter_ to you. All that matters to you is that you have me around for a good fuck before you slink back to your parents’ house like a _good little Catholic boy_ who’d never _dream_ of sodomising his _flatmate.”_

“Oh _fuck off,_ you know damn well that’s not it.”

“All I know is that you’re a bloody _coward.”_

The word hits John like a bullet, and for a moment, he catches himself reeling back as if preparing to throw a punch. But at the last second, the reality of what he’s about to do slams into him, and he freezes, staring menacingly down at Sherlock who defiantly meets his eye.

John drops his fist and shakes his head. “Fuck you.” There’s no heat in those words, just resignation. “You have no idea what this is like, do you? I’ve met your parents, I’ve seen how goddamn proud they are of you. They don’t give a shit if you’re gay, straight, or a fucking _vampire,_ so long as you’re happy and healthy and safe. Do you realise how _lucky_ you are to have people who love you like that, without condition?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, they have _conditions._ Stay clean, stay sober, be more like _Mycroft--”_

“THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU!” John is shouting now, but he can’t hold back any longer. “Jesus Christ, don’t you get it? For once in your life, THIS. IS. NOT. ABOUT. YOU. This isn’t even about US! This, what’s happening right here, right now, is about ME. MY dad died. MY mother is going to pieces. MY sister is off the wagon. MY family is in shambles. So for once in your GODDAMN life, I need you to understand that THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU. I need you to let me do what I need to do to get myself through this with as little damage as possible. And then once we get back to London, we can go to the mattresses and tear each other to shreds for all I care. But for now, I’m doing whatever it takes to stay afloat. Don’t you dare try and drag me down.”

And with that, he turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just living up to my personal life motto: "Don't worry, it gets worse."


	7. Chapter 7

_2008_

“Major Sholto. You wanted to see me?”

“At ease, Captain. Please, call me Jim. Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So John, I wanted to speak with you today in an unofficial capacity-- strictly off the record. Simply as two friends engaged in a casual conversation.”

“Um… alright, sir?”

“Jim.”

“Jim.”

“The reason I wanted to speak with you is that I’ve heard some rumours among the ranks about an incident that occurred two nights ago in the mess hall. Do you happen to know the incident of which I am speaking?”

“I believe I do, si-- Jim.”

“Again, John, I want to make it crystal clear that whatever you say here within these four walls will stay within these four walls; there will be no disciplinary action or official report based on any information you’re able to provide. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Could you recount for me, to the best of your abilities, the events of last Tuesday night?”

“I’d been passing the time playing cards with Private Abrahms, Private Johnson, Lance Corporal Simms, Lieutenant Murray, and Captain Nguyen. None of us had patrol that evening, so we’d been… we’d been imbibing in a bit of whiskey. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologise, John, it would take a lot more than that to scandalise a man of my station.”

“Right. Right, so at around twenty-one hundred hours, Abrahms started bitc-- uh, _complaining_ that he had a craving for some jaffa cakes. And he told us that he’d befriended one of the civvy chefs from the mess hall, and that he would still be on base doing prep work for the next day and could probably sneak us a few extra rations. Just to, uh… take the edge off, as it were.”

“Sure.”

“So we snuck over to the mess and went in through the back, the kitchen entrance. And… um…”

“It’s alright, John, there’s no judgement here.”

“Right. Yeah, so, we snuck into the kitchen and it was there that we found Private Wilson in a… um, in a compromising position. With the civvy chef. The… the _male_ civvy chef.”

“Were they engaging in fellatio?”

“Uh, no, it was… um, sodomy, I guess.”

“Right. And how did you react?”

“We were shocked, obviously. I mean, for a second it didn’t really… register, you know? That’s not something you really expect to see when you’re on a late-night food raid…”

“Of course. And then?”

“Um, we just… turned around and left.”

“Did Private Wilson see you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think either of them saw us.”

“Understood. So, knowing what you now know about Private Wilson, do you… see him differently?”

“...I don’t understand the question, si-- Jim.”

“What I mean is, considering the fact that you witnessed him engaging in a voluntary act of sodomy, it’s fairly safe to assume that Private Wilson is a homosexual. Did that surprise you?”

“Um… yeah, I guess so. I wouldn’t really have guessed it. Though looking back, he was always pretty quiet when we were all exchanging… um… anecdotes of a person nature.”

“I see. So taking that into account, do you believe that you would react differently to Private Wilson in, say, a combat situation, knowing that he is homosexual?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you treat him differently in a combat situation?”

“I’m a medic, sir. I would treat anyone who required my care. It’s my duty.”

“Of course, John, I don’t mean to question your dedication to your station. But knowing, for example, that homosexual men are nearly three times more likely to have HIV or AIDS than the average heterosexual man, would you hesitate to administer care in a situation in which contamination was feasible?”

“I… to be honest, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Understood. It’s an unlikely scenario, John, but it’s still one we must consider. And do you think this knowledge of Private Wilson’s sexual proclivities will impact group morale?”

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t really seen him much since it happened.”

“But do you _think_ you’d feel differently about him, if you were to have to share close quarters with him? In a situation in which privacy wasn’t an option, knowing that he may objectify you in a manner that other soldiers would not?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

“Mmm, of course. That’s a perfectly natural reaction, John, you needn’t be coy about it.”

“I just hadn’t really considered it, sir. It didn’t seem important, in the scheme of things.”

“Well, see, that’s just the thing, John: I have it on good authority that things will be changing for all of us very soon. There’s talk of our unit taking on a highly-specialised mission deep in enemy territory. Now, I’m telling you all of this in confidence, but it’s my duty to consider what needs to happen to ensure this unit is mission-ready. That’s my job, and it’s one I take seriously. If there are cracks in unit cohesion as a result of one individual’s personal life choices, it’s my duty to make sure that those cracks are repaired and airtight before any of us step one foot off this base. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I’m asking you now: In your _professional_ opinion, do you think Private Wilson’s actions may have caused a rift in unit cohesion?”

“I… I suppose they may have.”

“And do you believe that the other men who witnessed those actions have kept their findings to themselves?”

“Uh, I can almost guarantee not, sir. I believe it’s been the source of a fair amount of gossip.”

“That’s only natural in circumstances such as these, I think. So now let me ask: if we were to deploy on a high-risk mission, do you believe it would perhaps _benefit_ unit cohesion if Private Wilson were excluded from the operation?”

“He… he shouldn’t be discharged, sir, it was a minor infraction--”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, John, no one is talking discharge. Private Wilson would simply be reassigned to a position that would be… less dangerous. One it which group morale isn’t a matter of life or death. Do you understand?”

“I believe I do, yes.”

“And do you therefore concur with my judgement that Private Wilson’s efforts could best be put to use elsewhere?”

“I… Yes, I suppose I do, sir.”

“Excellent. Thank you again for your time, John. It’s been most helpful.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Dismissed.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill Murray is the name of the nurse who saved John’s life when he was shot in Afghanistan. He was a regular commenter on John’s blog (johnwatsonblot.co.uk), and his comments seem to imply that he and John knew one another prior to deployment as well. He hounded John a bit for having “gone gay” based on John’s initial description of Sherlock on his blog.

John tosses back the shot with disturbing ease, earning him a hearty pat on the back from Bill, who follows suit moments later.

“Remember when we used to do four of these before we even hit the pub?” Bill shakes his head in woeful disbelief. “I’ve no idea how our livers are still functioning.”

John laughs, and chases the shot with a long swallow of beer. “That’s the glory of youth, I suppose: Your physical stamina is defined only by a complete and total lack of self-preservation.”

“Oy. To youth.” Bill raises his pint glass and downs a third of it in a single go. John’s secretly pleased to note Bill seems willing to match him drink for drink.

“Thanks again for coming out. You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Eh, it’s no bother. Gives me an excuse to take a break from the wife and kids.”

“You’re using a _funeral_ as an excuse to skive off to the countryside and drink all afternoon? That’s grim, mate. Really grim.”

_“No,_ I’m using a funeral as an excuse to see a dear friend I’ve been neglecting too long. The fact that we’re properly pissed and it’s not even five o’clock on a Friday is simply a happy coincidence.”

“Cheers to that. How is Emily, by the way?”

“She’s fine. She just got another promotion at work so I’ve been doing the lion’s share of the childrearing, which may explain why I needed to get out of town for a bit.”

“I hear you. How are the kids?” John vaguely remembers receiving texts with their birth announcements a few years back, but he’s pretty sure the first of them had come right after Sherlock’s death, and he hadn’t had it in him to respond.

“They’re great. A handful, but great. We have three now, you know.”

“Three? Christ, I must have missed the memo on that third one…”

“Nah, wasn’t you, we literally forgot to send out a birth announcement. Guess that’s what happens by the time you’re on your third.” He shrugs and takes another drink. “But yeah, they’re all great. Just… a lot, sometimes. You know.”

“I do. I’ve just got the one, but she’s three now, and she’s running me ragged.”

“Where is she now?”

“At my mum’s. I think Rosie’s giving her something to do besides focus on her grief. Gives her a sense of purpose, you know?”

“Makes sense. And Sherlock?”

John stiffens slightly. “He’s fine.” He’d taken care not to mention Sherlock to Bill: Sherlock was currently the last thing John wants to talk about.

“Is he in town?”

“I’m not sure.”

Bill’s brow furrows as he signals the barkeep for another round. “But isn’t he your… um, partner?”

John shifts on his stool and looks Bill squarely in the eye. “What do you mean by that?”

Bill’s expression instantly transforms into one of total embarrassment. “Shit, sorry, mate, maybe I… misunderstood something?”

“Yeah. I think you did.”

“Oh. Right.” Bill clears his throat and glances away nervously, looking visibly relieved when their pint glasses are refreshed.

“So.” John grasps at straws, eager to change the subject. “Have you heard from anyone else in our unit lately?”

“Nguyen got another promotion, the smarmy bastard. That makes him a Colonel now.”

“Jesus. Wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.”

“Me either, I certainly didn’t peg him as a lifer, and yet.” He gives a perplexed shrug. “Johnson’s living in Bristol-- he’s got a couple of kids now, too. Simms and Demir are both in London, I think. Oh! I ran into Wilson a couple of months back at Heathrow.”

John nearly chokes on his beer. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I hadn’t seen him since he transferred out of our unit.”

The name dredges up a toxic mix of unwanted emotions, which John promptly drowns in another long swill of lager. “How is he?”

“Fine, I think? The whole thing was bloody awkward as hell. I think he was there with his boyfriend or something. Didn’t seem to want to talk. He lives in Greece now, apparently. Left the country as soon as his tour was over. Didn’t sign up for another one. Can’t say I blame him, after that fucking mess.”

“Yeah. Right.” John blinks dizzily down at his pint.

“What about Sholto? Have you heard from him since your wedding? God knows he doesn’t talk to the rest of us, but you were always his favourite.”

“I hear from him every couple of months. Not much has changed for him.”

“Pity. What a fucking waste.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

It’s easy to lose track of time. The dingy windows of the pub are so caked in decades of smoke and grime that the whole place exists in a state of eternal twilight, and John finds himself shocked when Bill rises and announces he’s returning to the inn for the night. A glance at his watch reveals that it’s already nearly nine.

“Fuck. Guess I’d better switch to water if I don’t want to be a mess at the mass tomorrow.”

Bill claps him on the shoulder. “Nonsense, mate. Just bring a hip flask for some hair of the dog, you’ll be right as rain.”

John laughs and buries his face in his hands. “Christ, Mum would _kill_ me. Besides, it’s not like I can count on Harry to be the sober one.”

Bill shoots him a wane smile. “Then my professional advise, as a nurse? Two pints of water, an order of chips, then go home and go the fuck to sleep.”

John gives him a mock salute. “Ay ay, sir!”

“See you tomorrow, mate. Ring me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Sure thing. Cheers, Bill.”

Two pints of water and an order of chips later, John feels significantly better. While he’s nowhere _near_ sober, he at least feels confident in his ability to navigate his way across the street to the taxi queue outside the train platform.

He stumbles unsteadily out the door of the pub and darts across the street, only to find the taxi queue woefully empty. He supposes he should have anticipated as much; there were probably a total of no more than three cabs operating in the area at any given time, and it would be at least an hour until the next train arrived to beckon them back to the station. Swearing under his breath, he resigns himself to walking and makes his way up High Street, hunching his shoulders in a futile defense against the frigid air.

He’s just rounded the corner when he spots a figure loitering outside the inn. Tall. Dark-haired. Long coat. And working his way diligently through a cigarette.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock turns to face the source of John’s voice, and he seems unsurprised when John steps into the shallow ring of light the inn’s lamp is casting across the sidewalk. He doesn’t try and hide the cigarette, instead opting to take a long, deliberate drag. “Am I not supposed to be here?”

“Just figured you went back to London.”

“Nope.” He takes another puff.

“So what did you do all day?” John still can’t quite believe Sherlock hadn’t up and left following their row yesterday.

“Saw the sights. Sampled the local delicacies. Rubbed shoulders with the quaint and noble townsfolk.”

“Piss off.”

“I took soil samples down by the river then finished reading the biography of Youyou Tu.” He rolls his eyes at John’s blank expression. “She developed a treatment for malaria back in the ‘70s and was awarded the Nobel Prize for her work in 2015.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock fishes around his pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes. He grabs another one, lighting it with the end of the one currently dangling from his lips.

So now he’s chain smoking. Clearly goading John on.

“Do you have to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Smoke. You know I don’t like it.”

“And what makes you think I give a _flying fuck_ about what you do and don’t like?”

Bad idea. In an instant, John has him by the lapels, pressed up against the rough stone wall of the inn, eyes wide with surprise.

“Put. The damn. Cigarette. Out.” John’s words are harsh and low, and he can feel the fury rushing through his veins. Sherlock ought to know better than to test him when he’s this drunk, he was playing with fire, the belligerent git--

Sherlock glares down at John mutinously. “Make me.” The words come out a sarcastic sneer.

John reaches up and tears the cigarette from between his lips, throwing it carelessly into the darkness behind them.

For a moment, there is nothing. Just the sound of their breath echoing in icy, ragged puffs, punctuating the stillness of the air all around them. Their eyes lock.

The next thing John knows, there’s a frantic clash of lips and teeth and tongues, and his hands are _everywhere,_ pulling Sherlock’s body desperately towards his own, seeking his heat like a man dying of cold. Sherlock responds in kind, his arms firm and strong and he holds John close, a strange, foreign whine reverberating from the back of his throat.

John’s not quite sure what happens from there. One minute they’re fumbling and frotting against the wall of the inn like a couple of lust-drunk teenagers, the next they’re in the alley and he has Sherlock bent over to face the wall, coat hiked up, trousers around his thighs as John works two spit-slicked fingers into him.

“Oh, fuck, yeah. You want it? You want this?”

“G-god, John, yes-- Ngh!” John grins to himself as Sherlock’s back bows, presenting his gorgeous arse for John’s use.

“Fuck, fuck _yeah_ you do… God, hold still…” John continues to piston his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s hole. He’s still clearly a bit loosened from their encounter the previous afternoon, and John summarily concludes that they could probably get away without lube. Grinning, he withdraws his fingers and leans over to spit on Sherlock’s puckered opening, then lines up the head of his cock and drives inside.

“Oh, God. Oh, God.” Sherlock’s voice is barely a whisper as John begins to piston into his channel. His knuckles are bone-white as his fingers clutch helplessly against the rough stone of the building.

John doesn’t respond. He just grips Sherlock by the hips and issues a series of animalistic grunts as he thrusts mercilessly into the tight heat enveloping his cock.

“Ah… Ah. _Ah…”_ He feels Sherlock’s passage clench tight around his prick as John drills against his prostate. Sherlock’s letting out a series of weak little mewls, and the noise further addles John’s already-delirious brain. He closes his eyes, letting the perfection of the encounter wash over him, and reams Sherlock for all he’s worth.

“J-John, John, _stop.”_

He hears the plea as though he’s underwater, and it takes him a moment to process the command.

“Stop. Please, stop.”

The reality of what Sherlock is saying hits him like a bolt of lightning. No matter how drunk he was, no matter how angry or horny or spiteful he’s ever been, he hears that word loud and clear and he reacts immediately, withdrawing from Sherlock’s body and taking two large steps back, keeping his hands held up in a gesture of supplication.

For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t move. Then he slowly rights himself, hitching his trousers up as the tail of his coat falls back into place. There’s the faint sound of him buckling his belt. He’s still facing away from John, staring resolutely at the wall in front of him. John doesn’t dare move. He just holds perfectly still, frozen.

Finally, Sherlock turns around. His face looks entirely blank. He doesn’t meet John’s eyes.

John’s the first to speak. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock swallows and stares at the ground. “I can’t do this again.”

“Do… what?”

“I can’t be with someone like this. In an alley.”

Oh. Well, that was easy enough; John coaxes his turgid member back into his trousers and briskly zips them up. “Okay. No problem. Let’s just go up to your room then, yeah?”

Sherlock laughs bitterly, tipping his head back to face the inky night sky. “You don’t fucking get it, do you? I mean, I can’t be with someone like this again. I can’t be someone’s dirty secret. Especially not yours.”

“Sherlock, we’ve been over this, this is just temporary. Monday we’ll be back in London, back to our normal lives, and we can be together just like we have been--”

“Fuck that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, _Fuck that._ I’ve spent enough of my time and energy catering to the whims of sexually repressed homophobes, and I’m not doing it anymore. You’re not some precious little snowflake, John. You’re a goddamn adult man, with a partner and a daughter and a _life._ And up until now, I thought it was one you were proud of.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I _am_ proud of our life!”

“Sure. Just not with your family. Or your old friends. Or your Army mates.”

“But what do any of them _matter?_ In the grand scheme of things, what do those people _bloody matter? None of them matter to me!”_

“They matter to _me!”_ Sherlock spits back, the words full of vitriol. “Because for as long as I’ve known you, John, what set you apart from everyone else in my life is that you were _never_ ashamed of me. _Ever._ You called me _brilliant_ and _amazing_ when everyone else settled for _freak_ and _faggot._ You didn’t care about my past, about the questionable things I did. You didn’t judge me for my addiction, you only cared that I stayed sober. And even when I did horrible things to you, even at my _worst,_ you forgave me and accepted me and made me believe that you were _proud_ of me, of _us--”_

“I am! What more do you want from me, a goddamn ring and a trip to the chapel?”

“Fuck, it’s not that, John, you _know_ it’s not that. It’s that I’ve given every single part of myself to you, every piece of my life, my past, my future, it’s yours, and I will never regret that. But for you, there are always _conditions._ That we can have our present and our future, but your past is some hallowed ground that you’re too afraid to taint with what you truly are.”

“And what is that?”

“Gay. You’re gay, John.” Despite himself, John lets out an exasperated snort. Sherlock purses his lips. “All of two minutes ago, you had me bent over with your cock in my arse. It wasn’t the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last.”

“But you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to be with.”

“And so now you’re with me. I think it’s about time you owned up to that fact.”

“But… but I don’t…”

“Look, John, I don’t give a flying fuck if you wank off to Playboy models and glance at waitresses’ cleavage and check out the women on the Tube, or fantasise about your near-pedophilic infatuation with Jennifer Lawrence--”

“Wait, how did you--”

“The fact remains, unless you have plans to _actually be in a sexual relationship with any of those people,_ what goes on inside that pervy little brain of yours is of absolutely no consequence in the real world. If the only person you’re fucking is a man, you’re gay. End of story.”

John just stares at him, dumbfounded. Sherlock sets his jaw, and stares back.

Finally, John breaks the silence. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Sherlock shrugs, suddenly infuriatingly cavalier. “Fine. Don’t say anything. Go home and think about what I’ve said.”

“... And what are you going to do?”

“Right now? I’m going to go upstairs, examine myself for anal fissures, have a bath, and apply some Xylocaine.”

John’s brain snaps to attention. “Are you hurt? Do you need me to take a look?”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of the situation myself, John. If there’s any cause for concern, I promise I’ll take the appropriate measures.”

John swallows hard. “Will you… Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you decide. If you’re ready to stop hiding and live authentically, I’ll be waiting here at the inn until ten o’clock. If you don’t show up, I’ll take the eleven o’clock train back to London.”

John feels like he can barely breathe. “And then?”

“And then we’ll figure out where to go from there. But I’m hoping it won’t come to that, John. For both our sakes.”

And with a swirl of his coat, he disappears down the alley and out into the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

_1983_

“You don’t have to go.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Johnny. I really, really do.”

John managed to lift his gaze from where he’d been picking at the pilled fabric of Harry’s duvet to finally look at her face. She’d stopped crying, but her mascara had smeared and her nose was red and her voice was hoarse from shouting.

“He’ll get over it. It’s night, now. Just wait until morning.” He didn’t have to explain further: Their father started drinking as soon as the clock struck noon, and by sundown had generally transformed into an all-around nightmare (that is, if he was at home. Nights he was out at the pub were pleasantly quiet and unobjectionable). But in the mornings he was bleary-eyed and sombre, glowering into his coffee and generally ignoring their existence.

“You just don’t get it, do you? He’s not going to get over this. _I’m_ not going to get over this.”

John shrugged. “Your hair will grow back.”

Harry laughed wetly and ran her hands over her newly-buzzed scalp, shaking her head in self-deprecation. “Fuck, you _really_ don’t get it, do you, Johnny? This isn’t about my hair.”

John bit his lip. Harry had been arguing with their father about her haircut, John was certain of it: as always, he’d eavesdropped on the entire row from the top stair of the landing. “But… that’s what he was yelling about.” The words felt incredibly childish on his tongue, and he hated himself even as he said them.

To her credit, Harry didn’t laugh at him. She just threw him an exasperated glance over her shoulder as she hastily stuffed a few more jumpers into her duffel bag. “He was yelling about my hair, yeah, but what he’s really angry about is what my hair _means.”_

John shifted uncomfortably and pulled another pill off the duvet. “What… um, what does your hair mean?”

“My hair means I’m queer.”

“Queer?”

“I’m a lesbian. A dyke. I like girls. Get it?”

“You… like girls?”

“Yeah, Johnny, I do.”

John paused to consider this. “How long have you liked girls?”

“Since forever.”

“Oh.”

“Do you hate me now, too? Think I’m a freak?”

“...No, I guess not. But Father Malloy says--”

Before he could finish the thought, Harry turned to stand in front of him, crouching down to his level, gripping his shoulders so hard it almost hurt, her eyes wide and imploring. “John, I want you to listen to me right now, because I won’t always be around to tell you this: Fuck the church. Fuck this family, fuck this town: They don’t define you. Their approval means _nothing._ You go to school, you get good marks, then you get the fuck as far away from here as fast as you can, and never look back. Do you understand me?”

John swallowed hard. Harry’s flare of intensity was staggering, and he suddenly felt very, very young. “Y-yes. Yes, I do.”

“Good.” She turned back to her bag and yanked open her dresser drawer, grabbing a fistful of socks and stuffing them inside.

“...Are… are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“That you like girls?”

“Yeah, Johnny, I’m sure. That’s not gonna change.”

“Okay.”

She pulled the zipper of her bag shut and turned to face him once more. John stared up at her, the silence between them suddenly heavy with the realisation that they were about to truly part for the first time in John’s life. Harry opened her mouth.

Just then, the sound of a car horn from the drive made them both jump.

“Shit, that’ll be Clara.”

“Clara?”

“She’s a friend of mine. I met her last time I was in the city. She’s gonna let me crash with her for a while.”

“Oh. Can I… can I come visit you?”

Harry’s eye twitched strangely, and for one horrifying moment John thought she was about to start crying again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Johnny. Don’t make Dad mad, okay? Just keep your head down. Work hard. Then _run._ Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. See ya round, Cricket.” John used to hate it when she called him that: She was always taking the piss out of him for being everyone’s moral conscience, like Jiminy Cricket from that stupid kids’ cartoon. But for once in his life, that night, John didn’t mind the nickname.

“Later, Fleabag.” That earned him a cuff on the ear, then with a grin and a wink, she was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes a brief reference to Sherlock's relationship with Victor Trever, which is described in detail in Part 11 of this series ("Absolution"). But for the purposes of this fic, all you need to know is that in his late 20's, Sherlock dated Victor, who was an LGBT rights activist and helped him become more comfortable with his own identity.

The sun is impossibly bright. So bright, it’s blinding. It’s casting strange halos as it sears into his pupils, dark spots hovering around the brilliant orb of white.

He wants to close his eyes. But no, something inside him reminds him that that was probably a bad idea. He should keep his eyes open. In case anyone came looking for him.

Was anyone looking for him?

Probably not. He’s pretty sure he can still hear gunfire and screaming. His whereabouts are probably fairly inconsequential to anyone still upright, he reasons.

How much blood has he lost? A lot. Too much. His vision is dimming. That’s not good. He wants to move, but he can’t; it’s as if all the strength has left his body, and he’s being held down by invisible hands, pinning him to the sandy, godforsaken earth.

He lets his eyes flutter shut. He’ll just rest here for a bit. 

The hands close tighter around him and pull down, _down,_ and suddenly he’s slipping beneath the sand. He gasps and struggles, but it’s no use-- the hands are too strong, the sand too heavy, his body too weak, he’s dying, he’s _dying, God, no, wait, please, God, let me live--_

_“NO!”_

“John! John, STOP, please, Christ, Johnny, it’s me--”

Cool air floods his lungs as his surroundings snap jarringly into focus. He’s completely, utterly disorientated-- it’s dark, it’s so dark here, everything around him is just vague shapes, the memory of the glaring sunlight receding rapidly to shadow as reality twists and morphs. It’s _cold,_ why is it so _cold_ all of a sudden? He’s shaking violently, screaming through clenched teeth, willing his brain to process what’s happening.

There’s warmth in his hands. There’s something warm there, and soft, and he focuses on that, he clings to it like a drowning man. He makes himself _concentrate_ on defining it, defining what is real. It feels like wool. It’s dry and has a slightly lumpy texture. Knit. Knitted wool in his hands.

Knees. His knees are next. Something is hard beneath his knees. Floor? Yes. Not hardwood. Carpet, but thin. Threadbare. He is kneeling on the floor on threadbare carpet.

That is what is real. Wool in his hands. Carpet beneath his knees. _This is real._

_Open your eyes, John._

“Harry?”

“It’s me, Johnny. It’s just me.” Her voice sounds small. She’s scared?

_Fuck._

He lets go of where he’d pinned her to the floor by a vise grip on her upper arms and shuffles backwards on his knees, putting space between them. He keeps his hands raised where she can see them. He hadn’t meant any harm. He never meant for any of this.

“Shit. Shit, are you okay?”

“‘M fine. You… you were having a nightmare, you were screaming, I tried to wake you up--”

“Fuck, Harry, how many times have I told you, _you can’t touch me when I’m like that!”_ Now that he’s regaining his bearings, he finds himself suddenly affronted by Harry’s recklessness.

“I know, _I know,_ but Johnny, you don’t know what it’s like to see you when you’re suffering like that! I tried just saying your name but it wasn’t working, so I just reached out to touch your arm--”

“I could have hurt you. _Did_ I hurt you?”

From where he’s crouched by the side of the bed, he can see Harry’s outline slowly pull herself into a sitting position, rolling her shoulders, flexing her arms experimentally. “Nah. Just… took me by surprise, is all.”

“You and me both.” He slouches backward to lean against the bed, breathing deeply to try and get his heart rate back under control. For a minute, there’s nothing but silence between them. John’s pretty certain he can smell the whiskey on her.

“He should be here.” Harry’s voice is stern in the darkness.

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Sherlock, you dipshit.”

“He’s better off at the inn.”

There’s a pause. “You said you don’t have the nightmares anymore. When… when he’s with you.”

John shifts. “I don’t.”

“So he should be here. With you.”

“Please, Harry. Let’s not do this now.” She’s drunk, and John’s not exactly sober himself. It’s some ungodly hour the night before their father’s funeral. They’re sprawled on the floor of his bedroom like a couple of children, this isn’t the time--

“For fuck’s sake, John! If not now, _when?_ If you won’t let him be here to help you through _this,_ what is it going to take for you to stop lying through your damn teeth?”

John sighs. “I’m not lying. I haven’t lied to anyone.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not telling the whole truth.”

“I’ll tell it if anyone asks.”

“Do you and Sherlock have sex?”

“Jesus, Harry.”

“What? I’m so goddamn sick and tired of using all these _coded_ words with you! He’s your _partner,_ he’s your _flatmate,_ he’s helping you _co-parent._ Like you said, I’m sure all those things are true. But now I want to know if you’re involved romantically. Sexually. Either. Both.”

John sighs and leans his head back to rest on the mattress. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“Both?”

“Both.”

“Well, okay then! Christ, was that so hard?”

John lets out a derisive snort. “No. But I don’t see why it’s relevant.”

“You _don’t see why it’s relevant_ to your lesbian sister that you’re also gay? You don’t think that might have been a _helpful tidbit of information_ that perhaps could have had a _positive impact on our relationship?_ To have known we were going through the same thing?”

“We’re not… it’s not the _same thing,_ Harry.”

She lets out a sardonic laugh. “Okay, this I’ve got to hear. How is it _not the same thing?_ How is your gayness so much more precious and special than mine?”

“Because I’m not… I don’t _identify_ with it, okay? I’m not gonna hang up a rainbow flag and march in Pride and dance to Robyn because _that’s not who I am.”_

Harry pauses before replying with absolute solemnity. “That makes absolute and total sense, now that you mention it. Despite the fact that you and your male flatmate have been fucking each other senseless for what I’m guessing has been the better part of the last half-decade, if you hips remain stationary when ‘Call Your Girlfriend’ comes on the radio, you get to remain a card-carrying heterosexual. Those are the rules.”

John can’t hold back a sigh from escaping him; what about this is so hard for other people to understand? “I just… I’ve been struggling with this a lot lately, to be honest. The thing is, Harry… it’s _just Sherlock._ It’s _just_ him. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with.”

“Ever? At all? Like… not even a casual hookup?”

“Nope.”

“A kiss?”

“Nope.”

“Not even in the _Army?”_

“You’ve been watching too much porn.”

“Is that a no?”

“That’s a no.”

“Okay, so you came ‘round to things later in life. It happens, sometimes. Everyone’s journey is different.”

“But Harry, I don’t even _look_ at other men like that. Don’t fantasise about them. Never felt even a _passing_ attraction. Nothing.”

She shrugs ambivalently. “So maybe you’re a gay demi-sexual.”

“Demi… sexual?”

“It’s a term used to define people who don’t experience sexual attraction without emotional connection. It’s really not that uncommon.”

John pauses to consider this, before shaking it off as patently absurd. “Nah, that’s not it. I was definitely attracted to Sherlock the moment I laid eyes on him-- it just took me a little while to identify the feeling as _attraction,_ considering that I’d never felt it towards a man before. But… um, with women, well… I’m attracted to them. A lot. And, uh… I acted on that attraction pretty regularly. Before Sherlock. And even now, I still find myself exclusively attracted to women in the objective sense.”

John can see Harry’s dark form cock her head. “Huh. You _are_ a queer one, Johnny.”

Despite himself, John laughs. “Christ, don’t I know it.”

Harry joins in the laughter. “Look, for what it’s worth, I can send you a few links to some sites that may help you sort this stuff out. Just give you a general overview of what’s happening in queer spaces, in terms of self-identification and presentation. I volunteer at a youth center a few days a month, and it’s been a real eye-opener; shit has apparently changed a lot since the ‘80s. Kids these days have got a word for everything.”

“You volunteer at a youth center?”

“Yup. Mentoring, if you can believe it. Well, at the very least, being a living cautionary tale, trying to keep kids from making the same mistakes I did.”

“Wow. That’s… that’s really great, Harry.”

There’s a lengthy pause, and when Harry speaks again, her words sound oddly wet. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left. All those years ago.”

“What?”

“Maybe you needed me around.”

John rolls his eyes. “Oh, sod off with the self-sacrificing shit. You did what you had to do.”

“Damn right I did. The question is, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you do what you had to do? Or did you do what you thought you should?”

“Probably somewhere in between, I guess.”

“Well, Johnny, the time for in-betweens is over. You’re either living your life for yourself, or for the approval of a bunch of people who don’t give a shit about you or your happiness. Your choice. But it’s about goddamn time you made it.”

The night feels endless. Of course, the situation isn’t improved by the fact that John had started drinking early the afternoon before, meaning that his hangover sets in promptly at three in the morning. If there’s one thing worse than restless, drunken sleep, he concludes, it has to be a painful, pre-dawn hangover.

He drinks water. He takes two paracetamol. He paces in his bedroom, and when he grows tired of that, he makes his way downstairs to where Rosie’s portable crib is set up.

She’s beautiful. For a long time he just watches her, the steady rhythm of her chest rising and falling, her eyelashes fluttering gently in the wake of a dream. Every breath feels perfect and precious.

He thinks of Mary. Of her sacrifice. Of what she’d wanted his future with Rosie to be. For all that had been broken between the two of them by the time of Mary’s death, her wish that Sherlock be the one to put John back together again is something John will never take lightly. She’d wanted John and Sherlock to work it out, to give Rosie the family she deserved. The enormity of that doesn’t escape him. And they’d been trying-- God _knows_ he and Sherlock have been trying, they’ve been trying so damn hard to live up to the standard that Mary somehow knew the two of them could attain.

Sherlock especially. Christ, when John thinks about the man Sherlock had been when he first met him, he’s nearly unrecognizable when compared to the man he’s become. Sure, he’s still stubborn and ornery and unforgivably pompous. He can be snide and impatient and sometimes downright cruel, when he wanted to be.

But he’s no longer selfish. He’s no longer thoughtless. He tries relentlessly to be a _partner_ in every true sense of the word, even when it means putting their family above himself. For all the ways he’s ever fallen short of John’s expectations, he’s exceeded them in every way that truly matters.

And what has John offered in return? Transparency, yes-- to a degree, certainly more so than he ever had in the past. Communication, surely-- John has worked to overcome his tendency to default to the “stiff upper lip” mentality so ingrained by his upbringing. But these efforts seem dwarfed by all Sherlock has done to make their situation _work._ He’d never asked for a child. He’d never sought a family. Those had been John’s aspirations for his life, never Sherlock’s. And yet Sherlock had taken it all in stride, he’d grown and changed and become someone that he and Rosie were _lucky_ to have in their lives. Christ, they were _so damn lucky_ to have him.

John scoops up Rosie from her crib and carries her up the stairs. She’s sleep-sated and muzzy, but she curls into his arms the moment John lowers her to the bed. He lays down beside her, and for a few precious hours, he sleeps.

Sunrise brings a predictable flurry of frenzied activity as John attempts to wrangle everyone out the door to the church. Harry is shockingly helpful: She sits patiently with their mother and helps her decide between three (seemingly identical) black dresses before aiding her with the application of a black lace veil (apparently a rather macabre family heirloom), giving John time to shepherd Rosie through her morning routine (he’s getting much better at taming her wild ringlets, if he does say so himself). 

They arrive not just on time but surprisingly _early,_ and are greeted by an appropriately solemn Father Malloy, who assists John’s mother up the church steps and into her seat before turning to John. 

“Your mother and I have gone over the readings extensively, but did you have any… further input you’d like to add?”

John gives him a polite smile. “No, Father. I’m sure whatever you’ve selected will be appropriate.”

Father Malloy clears his throat and shifts uncertainly on his feet, lowering his voice considerably. “Will you… be taking communion today?”

The question catches John off-guard. True, he’d known that there would be a full mass, but his participation in communion hardly seemed relevant. “I… wasn’t planning on it, no.”

Father Malloy gives him a rather _pointed_ look. “If there’s something you wish to confess, John, we can arrange--”

“No, Father, that won’t be necessary.”

Father Malloy purses his lips and takes John by the elbow, guiding him out of earshot of his mother. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, John, and I know now is a difficult time for your family. But in light of what your mother told me about your living situation and your current lifestyle, it hardly seems appropriate that you should deliver a reading from the pulpit.”

John raises his eyebrows incredulously. “Is that so?”

“We… your mother and I, we discussed it at length, and your father’s old friend Will Gallagher has offered to do a reading instead. He’s a member of the parish, and it seems to me to be a far more appropriate choice--”

“Absolutely.”

Father Malloy seems a bit taken aback. “I-- what?”

“That is absolutely the right choice. Mr. Gallagher was one of my father’s oldest friends, they served together, and as a member of the parish, I’m sure his input will be of far more sentimental value than my own. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting my partner at the inn. We’ll be back by the time the service starts.” And with a grin and a nod, he turns and makes his way down the aisle and out the doors.

He offers a quick parting wave to Harry, who’s currently occupying Rosie in the front garden of the church. She gives him a grin and a nod, and it’s with a bounce in his step that he makes his way to High Street. He knocks on the door to Sherlock’s room at precisely 9:56.

Sherlock flings the door open with a scowl on his face and malice in his eyes. “Were you _trying_ to make me sweat?” He sounds so indignant, John can’t help but laugh.

“Sorry, I just wanted it to be like one of those sappy romantic comedies you love so much, where everything’s down to the last second.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he holds the door open and ushers John inside. “Well, you’re not doing my hair any favours. My hairline is greasy now.” He’s pouting, and it’s so adorable John has to fight the urge to grab him by the lapels and kiss him, but considering where they’d left things between them the night before, that hardly seems in good taste. Instead, he digs into the pocket of his suit and offers Sherlock a handkerchief. Sherlock gives it an appraising glance and then takes it and uses it to dab his brow.

“So. You’re here.”

“I am.”

“And that means you’ve made a choice?”

John takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “Sherlock, I realised after last night that I think I’ve been going about this the wrong way. All this time, I’ve been thinking about it in terms of why defining myself as _gay_ feels wrong to me, whereas really, I should have asked why it feels _right_ to you. I know it’s not just because we’re having sex; you’re nuanced to a fault, and you’d never simplify something so complex just for categorisation’s sake. So… So now I’m asking: Why is it so important to you that I identify as gay?”

For a moment, Sherlock looks utterly perplexed. He lowers himself to sit on the bed, the crease between his eyebrows emerging, the one he only gets when he’s deep in thought, and he steeples his fingers beneath his chin. There’s a long, heavy silence.

John sits down beside him, and waits.

It must be nearly five minutes before Sherlock speaks, to the point that when he does, his baritone sounds utterly commanding in the silence of the room.

“The thing is, John, when you deny being gay, it doesn’t feel like you’re denying something about _yourself._ It feels like you’re denying something about _me._ That I’m somehow wrong for you, different, an extreme outlier in your data set, a deviation from your standard. And I acknowledge, statistically, that I _am_ an anomaly-- after all, considering how many partners you’ve had, the fact that I’m the only man is certainly noteworthy…” (John internally flinches. Though he knows objectively that Sherlock’s certainly long since deduced John’s _number,_ it makes him feel slightly exposed to know that Sherlock’s able to keep score) “... the fact remains that when you say you’re straight, it makes me feel like this isn’t… like to you, what we have between us isn’t real. This doesn’t count. That you don’t… that you don’t love me the way you would if… if I were a woman. If I were _right_ for you.”

John can’t move fast enough, taking Sherlock’s hand firmly between his own, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips, as though somehow these affirmations were enough to comfort him despite the gravity of the emotions he’s just revealed. John knows he needs to respond with words instead of actions, but to see Sherlock so vulnerable has blindsided him completely, and he’s overwhelmed with the urge to simply take him to bed and curl up beside him and hold him and murmur affirmations of love and fidelity over and over again.

But he knows that this time, that won’t be enough. They have to fix this, once and for all.

John sits up straighter, still clasping Sherlock’s hand in his own, and meets his eye directly. Sherlock swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing along the pale column of his neck in that way John finds so endearing, he feels as if his heart will explode with overwhelming affection.

“Sherlock, I know that before you Fell, things between us were… they were messed up. I acknowledge that. Not what we were doing together, but the way we were going about it… it was more than a bit Not Good. But I have to know: In the time since we’ve… In the time since we got back together, have I ever done anything that’s made you doubt that I love you?”

Sherlock slowly shakes his head.

John licks his lips. “But that’s not… that’s not enough? Knowing that I love you isn’t enough?”

Sherlock looks away, his eyes suddenly going distant. “I thought you’d wait.”

The words are wet, brittle, and they catch John entirely off-guard. He has no idea what Sherlock is talking about.

“You thought I’d… wait? For what?”

“When I Fell. It was stupid, I know that. It’s not your fault.” To John’s alarm, a trickle of tears runs down Sherlock’s cheek, accentuating the curve of his cheekbone. Even like this, he’s so goddamn beautiful, John thinks to himself, but he quickly focuses on the gravity of what Sherlock’s just said.

“You thought I’d… wait? But you were… you died. You died, Sherlock. In front of me. I saw it.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice still sounds small and uncertain. It’s so unlike him, John’s almost afraid. “It was childish and foolhardy, but I just had this… this fantasy, of coming back to London, to you, and everything would go back to the way it was.” He laughs wetly and brushes at the tears, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “After Mycroft extracted me from Serbia and got me cleaned up, I told him to take me back to you on Baker Street. When he told me you weren’t there, I… I wasn’t expecting that. And then I went to find you, and you were in that restaurant in Marylebone, and you looked so handsome even with that stupid mustache, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But the moment I approached your table, I saw… I saw what you were there to do, to propose to someone, someone _else._ And I couldn’t… I didn’t know what to think. So I just… made a big joke out of it. The waiter thing and all. Played it off for laughs. Like it didn’t matter. Like it was all I was expecting. That you’d moved on. Found someone _right_ for you. That life was as it should be.”

John grimaces. “And let me beat the shit out of you.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Small potatoes, in the scheme of things.”

John reaches up to brush away an errant tear from Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock leans into the sensation as if by instinct. _God,_ John thinks to himself, _how could Sherlock ever doubt that what they have is right? Everything they do, they’re two halves of a whole. Always have been._

But before he can open his mouth, Sherlock has soldiered on. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty, John. I died in front of you. You grieved. I know you did. And then you moved on. Had I really died that day, or had I not made it back from my mission to destroy Moriarty’s network, that’s… that’s what I would have wanted for you. You did exactly what I’d have wanted you to do. But John, you have to understand, that to watch you fall in love with a woman, to marry her, father a child with her, it was as if I was watching her give you _everything_ I never could. Because you’re straight. And she’s a woman. So for you to love her is _right_ for you. That’s why I never held it against her. Couldn’t.”

John gives his hand a firm squeeze. “But what _you’ve_ given me is incredible, Sherlock. You’re a brilliant partner and a loving father to our daughter. You’re devoted to our house and home, to our friends, and even, dare I say it, to your family. And that’s not even starting with the… well, with the… sexual things, which are also brilliant, by the way, and so far beyond my wildest dreams that sometimes I can’t even believe this is real. _Everything_ about you is _right_ for me.” John can feel a blush rising in his cheeks, and he’s relieved to see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock’s lips.

But John’s feeling of victory is short-lived, as the smile fades from Sherlock’s face and his eyes grow distant again. He pauses for an infinite moment, and John patiently waits for him to collect his thoughts. When he finally speaks again, his voice is firmer and more clear.

“Back when I was with Victor Trevor, he taught me a lot about the struggle for gay rights.” John nods encouragingly, intrigued as to where this was going. “He taught me that being gay isn’t simply about who you have sex with. Because sure, having sodomy decriminalised is important-- the physical act itself is an intrinsic part of the gay identity, and shouldn’t be overlooked. But more importantly, being gay is about who you _love._ That’s why the rest of the civil rights movement matters: marriage equality, civil partnerships, adoption rights-- that hasn’t got anything to do with sex. It’s to do with who you share your life with, and how that life is shared. So when I came home to find that you’d moved on and were marrying Mary, I felt… blindsided, maybe? And I concluded that what that meant was that you’d been willing to _fuck_ me, but you certainly didn’t _love_ me. You didn’t _love_ me because you weren’t gay. At least, not the way that I loved you.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “And that… that’s why when you say you’re _not gay,_ it feels like a rejection of me. It feels like I am _other_ to you. That your life with Mary was part of your _identity,_ and your life with me is not. And I think that… I think that’s why it bothers me. Not because I’m comparing myself to Mary, or because I want you to love one of us more than the other, or because I feel you have to invalidate what you had with her to validate what you have now with me. But because _this, our_ life, the one we share, feels real to me. And I have to know that it’s real to you, too. All of it. The sex, the love, the easy parts and the messy bits, that it’s as real to you as it is to me.”

John can’t hold back the tears any longer, and he lets them fall. He usually tries not to cry in front of Sherlock as it often confuses him, but he feels like in this moment, Sherlock will understand.

He’s finally able to collect his thoughts coherently enough to speak, and when he does, it’s with a crippling earnestness the likes of which he’s never experienced before. “Sherlock, I have loved you for as long as I’ve known you. Even before you Fell, back when we kept trying to convince ourselves that we were just in it for a good shag to keep the boredom between cases at bay, I loved you in a way I’ve never loved another person before, and never will again. This, what we have between us, it is the realest, truest thing that I know. This life we share, it is the _only_ life for me. Always has been. Always will be. All roads lead back to you, back to this, back to _us._ And I think I’ve known it since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic, John, it wasn’t love at first sight. You’re viewing the past with rose-coloured glasses.”

John cocks an eyebrow. “Is that so? So you’re trying to tell me that in your initial round of deductions when you looked up from your microscope at St. Bart’s, you didn’t even _consider_ whether I’d be willing to let you get in my pants? Thought never crossed your mind?”

Sherlock shrugs, acting smugly aloof. “Not a chance. I didn’t start deducing that until thirty-six seconds later.”

“Thirty-six seconds?”

“When you handed me your mobile and I snuck a peek at your arse.” 

John barks out a laugh, and Sherlock’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles, one of his _real_ smiles, the kind that make John feel simultaneously giddy and hopelessly infatuated. The tension between them seems to melt away, and John can feel his posture relaxing as he pulls Sherlock’s palm up to his lips for a kiss.

“Thank you for telling me that.”

“That I checked out your arse?”

John gives him a good-natured swat on the shoulder. “No, you prat. Thank you for telling me… how you view your sexuality. And what your sexual identity means to you. I guess for most of my life, I’ve been immersed in a culture that defines sexuality as… well, as who you have sex with. I’d never thought about it in terms of how _identity_ is more than just which bits you’re rubbing against which other bits. It’s… it’s eye-opening for me. So thank you for that.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “You’re welcome.” He still sounds a bit hesitant.

John sighs. “You probably already know this, but… this is a lot to take in at the moment. I know we were having these issues before this happened with my dad, but everything coming to a head right now, it’s… confusing, to say the least. I hope you’ll understand that, and give me some time to process it all. Please don’t think I’m disregarding what you’re saying. I just need some time. To sort myself out. And to frame this conversation in a new way, using what you’ve taught me just now as a reference. Do you trust me to work on that in my own time?”

Sherlock’s lip quirks up. “I do.”

John grins. “Good.”


	11. Chapter 11

When John walks down the aisle of the church hand-in-hand with Sherlock, judging by the reaction of the congregation, he imagines it’s been quite some time since a scandal of such epic proportions has rattled the village so thoroughly. But he ignores the gasps and whispers and simply clutches Sherlock’s fingers tight in his own. He slides into the pew next to a beaming Harry and ecstatic Rosie, whose delighted cry of “Adda! Serrock!” instantly transforms the whispers into fond chuckles.

He doesn’t recall most of the service. What he does recall is Sherlock’s palm warm against his own, their thighs pressed together and shoulders touching, a grounding sensation that envelopes John in safety and strength. He lets the words of Father Malloy’s sermon wash over him, and he clings only to that which serves him, a technique Dr. Richards had imparted upon him that he’s only beginning to master.

Father Malloy speaks about forgiveness. And John reflects.

If Sherlock could forgive John, then perhaps there was a chance yet for John to forgive his father.

No. Forgiveness was out of reach. But perhaps instead, he could begin to _understand._

Because if John has learned anything from his recent reflections, it’s that he hadn’t been born afraid of being gay. It had been ingrained in him by external forces for as long as he could remember, a toxic mix of fear and loathing and hate. And if those external forces made him the way he was, perhaps his father was a victim as well as a perpetrator of those external forces, too. John wonders what his father’s childhood had been like. Had his father’s own father been a drunk as well? Had he been cruel and mean-spirited, ruling with an iron fist, doomed to perpetuate a vicious cycle born generations ago?

John had never thought to ask.

But all he knows when he looks down at Rosie, perched next to him and utterly fixated on the spectacle of the service, is that the pattern stops here. It stops here, with him and Sherlock. And Harry, too. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and Aaron and Jenny and Danny and Moira and Stamford and everyone else they’ve made a part of their lives, who accept them as their true, authentic selves. Their chosen family, their circle of friends. The pattern of shame and fear stops here, with them.

They bury his father in a plot on the outskirts of the cemetery, near a cluster of barren oak trees whose branches slice jagged black lines into the thick grey January sky. Rosie loses interest halfway through the proceedings, but her attention is piqued once again when she’s allowed to toss a handful of dirt onto the coffin (an event she attempts to repeat several times, much to the amusement of the congregation). Afterwards, they all retire to the family home, where trays of crustless sandwiches are consumed and endless cups of tea are poured. Harry mercifully offers to take Rosie off their hands for a bit, and it’s only then that John notices Sherlock is nowhere to be found. He makes the rounds downstairs before his suspicion gets the best of him, and he slips upstairs to his bedroom.

Sure enough, Sherlock is there. He’s running his fingers absently along the worn bedpost of John’s old bed, undoubtedly deducing some sordid detail of John’s past. The thought makes John smile.

“Hey, you.” He steps into the room and closes the door behind him.

“Hello.” Sherlock gives him a shy smile and turns back to examine the windowframe (for what, John can’t even begin to imagine, nor does he want to know).

“You see anything good?” John doesn’t pretend not to know Sherlock is deducing him. It doesn’t bother him, anymore. Not really.

“I see _you.”_ Sherlock’s voice sounds warm and sad all at once. 

John comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his cheek against his shoulderblade. “You see me?”

“Yes. Parts… parts I didn’t see before.” Sherlock relaxes into John’s embrace, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Mmm.” John presses a soft kiss into the back of his neck.

“You weren’t always left-handed.”

“Nope.” Another kiss.

“You wanted a dog, but never got one.”

“Mmhmm.” Another kiss.

“You thought you’d spend your life in the military.”

“I did.” Another kiss.

“You never wanted to come back here.”

He takes Sherlock by the shoulder and spins him around, then wraps his hand gently behind Sherlock’s neck and pulls him down into a soft, slow kiss. Sherlock returns his affection in a sweet, sensual slide of lips and tongue. It feels heavenly, and John’s soon lost in the rhythm of their intermingled breath.

He doesn’t _mean_ to back Sherlock up until his knees catch on the edge of the bed, sending him tumbling down onto it with an undignified yelp. It just sort of _happens,_ and then there’s nothing John can do but climb on top of him, press down against him, move with him as their lips eagerly meet once more. Sherlock spreads his legs and John settles between them and it’s as natural as breathing, their bodies perfectly in sync as they find solace in each other.

Unsteady fingers make their way to Sherlock’s belt, and John fumbles a bit as he struggles to unfasten it. He can feel Sherlock’s hardness brushing against his knuckles, straining through the constricting fabric of his perfectly-tailored trousers, and he chuckles amicably into Sherlock’s panting mouth. “Mmm, a bit eager?” His voice sounds low and laced with arousal, even in his own ears.

Sherlock answers with nothing but a pleading whine and a rocking of his pelvis, and by some miracle John manages to make quick work of his belt and flies and takes Sherlock’s turgid length into his hand, stroking him firmly as beneath him, Sherlock writhes and gasps.

“Oh! Oh, God, _John…”_

John grins down at him before capturing his lips in yet another kiss. Then slowly, deliberately, he angles his wrist and curls his palm to guide his fingers into Sherlock’s trousers, down lower, past the familiar heat of his sac, until he’s pressing his digits firmly between Sherlock’s cheeks.

“John, wait.” Sherlock pulls away breathless, and John immediately withdraws his hand. His heart is racing and he feels unnaturally hot all over, but he manages to relay the message to his hips to quit thrusting against Sherlock’s reclined form beneath him.

“You alright?”

Sherlock blinks up at him, cheeks flushed, pupils so dilated his eyes seem almost back. He swallows hard. “Yes, I’m… I’m fine, but last night, we were rough…”

John feels suddenly chilled. “Were you hurt? Christ, Sherlock, did I hurt you?” He tries to sit up and pull away, but Sherlock wraps his legs resolutely around him, locking him into position.

“It was consensual, John. I wanted it rough, you were doing what I wanted you to. And you stopped when I told you to.”

John narrows his eyes. “And that’s all fine, but you’re not answering my question: _Are you hurt?”_

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “My body needs a break. From penetrative intercourse. It’s nothing serious, but it would be foolish for us to… see this through to completion, at the moment.”

John bites his lip. He trusts Sherlock, and he believes Sherlock knows his own limits. The fact that he’s drawing a line here is significant, and John deeply respects him for it. He leans down and steals another kiss, tender and deep, before pulling away and looking Sherlock squarely in the eye. “Alright. How about you top me this time?”

Sherlock blinks back up at him, looking vaguely skeptical. “We can… do something else, if you’d like… hand jobs, blow jobs…”

John shakes his head. “I want to get laid in this bed.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please. You’re not going to convince me that you’ve never had sex in this bed before. I know your reputation, _Three-Continents--”_

“Allow me to clarify.” John takes hold of Sherlock’s wrists and gently pins them above his head before beginning to gyrate his hips slowly, grinding his own erection against Sherlock’s. “I want to get laid _by you_ in this bed. So how about it, Mr. Holmes?” He leans down to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, his voice low and tone filthy. _“Will you fuck me?”_

_“Oh, God, yes.”_ In an instant, Sherlock’s rolled them both over, and he’s moving on top of John in a frantic jumble of limbs and lips and hastily discarded clothing. John registers nothing but _heat_ and _pressure_ and _bliss_ as they move against one another, acclimating to the new arrangement but no less enthusiastic than they’d been moments before.

“Lube… we need _lube…”_ Sherlock sounds so uncharacteristically desperate that John laughs out loud. He manages to extricate himself from Sherlock’s sloth-like grip and dart across the room to his bag where, miracle of miracles, he has a few packets stashed in the side zip. He holds them aloft in triumph and all but dives back into bed, where he loses himself in Sherlock’s embrace all over again.

Sherlock preps him slowly, diligently, with a tenderness that John’s only seen in him in moments like this. Sherlock is so reverently cautious as a lover, it makes John’s heart swell with gratitude. He trusts Sherlock so completely, and he willingly surrenders himself to Sherlock’s hands.

“I think you’re ready.” Sherlock’s voice filled with awe, and it makes John smile. He loves that he’s the only man Sherlock’s ever penetrated; it feels like a sacred bond that just the two of them share.

John takes a swift assessment of his body. His erection has flagged to half-mast, but that’s unsurprising; he’s never been able to maintain an erection during penetration, but he’s learned to accept that, and thankfully, Sherlock has too. They’ve both learned that the act can be about the _experience,_ not just the outcome.

“Alright. Roll over on your back for me, yeah?” John raises himself up onto his hands and knees, wincing slightly at the sensation of wet openness as Sherlock’s fingers slip out from inside him. He guides Sherlock onto his back and straddles him, then leans down for a searing kiss.

Sherlock doesn’t top very often. As he’s described it to John, the input can be overwhelming for him, and he has trouble relaxing and enjoying himself. As such, John’s learned to take the reins in every encounter, even in situations when he’s letting Sherlock top; it allows Sherlock to stop worrying about whether he’s doing things right and simply enjoy the sensations.

With a coy smile, John breaks the kiss and sits upright, then reaches behind himself to stroke Sherlock’s twitching cock. Sherlock gasps and arches, and John revels in the vision of his abdominal muscles rippling in anticipation of what’s to come. Gently, he guides Sherlock’s member to his opening, and slowly lowers himself down.

Sherlock’s eyes are so wide it’s nearly comical, and his mouth hangs open awkwardly, gasping in frantic breaths as John impales himself in a slow series of smooth, gradual undulations. He doesn’t thrust up into John’s heat or grip his hips demandingly; he simply lies perfectly still, and lets John seek his own pleasure. He is _so good_ to John. So goddamn good.

At long last, John feels his buttocks come to rest on Sherlock’s thighs. He shifts his pelvis experimentally, adjusting to the stretch and Sherlock’s thick heat inside of him, and the action earns him a yelp from Sherlock, whose hands fly helplessly to John’s hips.

“Shhh, love, we have to be quiet! There are _guests_ downstairs…” The sheer act of saying it highlights the absurdity of the situation: John’s just basically come out at his own father’s funeral, and now he’s screwing his male partner in his childhood bedroom while the entire village congregates below them in the sitting room. It’s so deliciously perverted, it’s absolute perfection.

“Christ… John, you feel so _good…”_ Sherlock’s voice sounds oddly high, and he tightens his fingers around John’s waist as he scrunches his eyes shut.

“You alright? We can stop, love, we don’t have to keep going…” He’s a little worried Sherlock might be getting overwhelmed; the sensory input could be too much for him sometimes, and John doesn’t want to push him.

“No, no, I’m okay, I’m just… I won’t last long. You’re so _tight, God…”_ Sherlock issues an experimental thrust upwards, and John’s eyes roll back in his head at the sensation.

“Nnngh. It’s okay, Sherlock, we should make this quick. Go ahead.”

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and gives John an appraising glance. “We don’t… we don’t have a condom.”

John knows what he’s saying. Since the first time John tried bottoming, he’d been fairly put off by the sensation of having come inside of him. It was just another way that the two of them were different: while Sherlock loved nothing more than the sensation of being made wet and messy, it made John feel a bit squeamish when his own arse was the one involved. Luckily, they’d come to an agreement in which the rare times Sherlock was topping, he’d either wear a condom or pull out before coming to save John the more unpleasant elements of the clean-up. In general, the arrangement worked for them.

But tonight, John _needs_ this. He _needs_ to feel connected to Sherlock in that special, intimate way that only the two of them ever connected with each other.

“It’s okay. Come inside me.”

Sherlock swallows, looking incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, want to feel you, love. Go ahead, now. Come on.”

And with that, John begins to ride Sherlock with all the desperate desire that’s been building up inside him for the last few days. All his grief, all his sorrow, all his confusion and anger and pent-up resentment fall away and there is nothing but _this,_ the two of them, here in this moment, _together._

Beneath him, Sherlock plants his feet on the bed and begins to meet John thrust for thrust. His fingers are an anchor on John’s waist, affirming the pace of their coupling, guiding John’s body towards their mutual pleasure. They’re both issuing bitten-off cries and helpless whimpers as the act turns frantic, lost in the blinding heat of it all.

“OH! Oh, OH!” Sherlock’s muscles coil and his thrusts turn animalistic, pounding up into John with all his considerable strength.

“Oh, God, yeah, that’s it, Sherlock, that’s it, love, give it to me, come on, GOD, you’re so good, love, you’re so good, come for me, Sherlock, come in me, come in me, come in me…”

With a strangled grunt, Sherlock’s body bows and contorts, and then John feels a wet, warm heat spreading deep inside of him. For some reason, it doesn't bother him this time. It feels good. 

Sherlock rides out wave after wave of pleasure, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out as he deposits more come into John’s clenching channel. His eyes look glazed and his hair is wild and he is so goddamn _beautiful_ like this, John wishes he could stay in this moment forever.

“Oh my God.” Sherlock rolls his head back into the pillow as his limbs go lax and pliant, and he sighs with contentment, eyes fluttering shut. He shifts a bit, and John can feel his member slowly softening inside him. With a wince, he raises himself up and rolls off of Sherlock onto his back, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead as he does so. Sherlock smiles, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“You alright, love?”

“Yes. I think my hard drive crashed. Give me a second.”

John laughs and lies back, bringing his hand to his own cock and slowly stroking himself back to hardness. The sight of Sherlock sweaty and spent does wonders for his libido, and it’s only a few moments before he’s risen to full mast again.

Not a moment too soon, Sherlock’s eyes flick open and he sits up, taking in the sight splayed out before him. “Mmm. Feeling alright?”

John grins up at him. “Yeah. Feeling good. Could be better, though…” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and looks down at his turgid member, and Sherlock returns his smile before gamely clambering to kneel between John’s legs. He leans forward and licks a trail of kisses across John’s chest, down his sternum, over his abs, and (infuriatingly) up the crease of his groin before _finally_ taking John’s cock between his lips and swallowing it down with aplomb.

He sucks John with all the gorgeous, brilliant enthusiasm that he always brings to this particular act. Watching Sherlock Holmes perform fellatio is, in John’s humble opinion, akin to witnessing one of the true wonders of the world. Everything about him-- his eyelashes, his cheekbones, his plush lips, his clever tongue-- all of it seems _made_ for a spectacle like this. His nimble fingers first occupy themselves pressing John’s thighs apart, then his left hand travels downward to fondle John’s balls, while his right travels further below, until John can feel one slick digit slip inside of him. Despite himself, he gasps.

Sherlock lifts his head. “Alright? I don’t have to penetrate you if it doesn’t feel good--”

John shakes his head frantically. “No, no, it feels amazing, keep… keep going…” It’s only been recently that John’s discovered that he enjoys a bit of prostate stimulation, so long as his passage isn’t being stretched by anything much wider than a single finger.

Sherlock finds his prostate with unerring precision and presses against it in light, delicate strokes in time with the bobbing of his head. John is enveloped in the glorious sensation of being stimulated from inside as well as out, and he tangles his fingers into Sherock’s mop of curls, taking control of the pace and guiding Sherlock’s strokes. It’s utterly transcendent, and he can’t stop his hips from jerking upwards into the tight, wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth before arching back, seeking more pressure from Sherlock’s finger. He loses himself in the _pushpull_ of the dual sensations, and before he knows it, his balls are pulling up tight and he’s spilling heavily onto Sherlock’s tongue.

The moment his climax hits him, Sherlock swallows him down completely, deepthroating him as the waves of pleasure wash over him. He can feel Sherlock’s throat constricting in tantalizing oscillations, and it wrings yet another ripple of ecstasy from his pulsing cock. His orgasm seems to last forever, and everything grows blurry and dim as he surrenders completely.

The steady buzz of voices from downstairs drags John reluctantly back into the present. He and Sherlock are splayed out side by side, almost comically cramped on John’s tiny bed. He feels utterly wrung out, and it’s with a low groan that he pulls himself into a sitting position and rises unsteadily to his feet. Sherlock makes an exasperated sound and yanks the pillow over his head.

“Ah ah, come on now, we need to get back downstairs. We’ll be missed before too long.”

Sherlock’s response is muffled through the layer of down. “Well, you should have thought about that before you extracted my brain through my dick.”

John grabs the pillow and gives Sherlock a hearty whack with it. “Seriously, Sherlock, get up. I think we’ve scandalised people enough today without being caught _in flagrante delicto_ in the middle of a damn wake.”

Sherlock sighs heavily but reluctantly rises. “Does it still count as a wake if it’s after the funeral?”

“Don’t know, you’ll have to ask Father Malloy.” John kneels down next to Rosie’s travel bag and roots around for some wet wipes; the lack of en suite bathroom suddenly seems a rather glaring oversight. Resigned to making do with what they have, he takes a few wipes from the box before tossing it over his shoulder to Sherlock. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know that Sherlock’s caught it. They just _work_ like that.

“Well, I suppose that will give Father Malloy and I something to talk about. You know, I’m starting to suspect he might not like me much.” Sherlock does a rather awkward series of hops as he struggles to pull his trousers on, and John bursts out laughing at his uncharacteristic bout of clumsiness.

“Not like you? Impossible. All you’ve done is seduce an upstanding member of his flock and indoctrinate him into your heathen lifestyle. Standard stuff, really.” John nearly finishes buttoning his shirt before realising his alignment is akimbo, and he’s forced to unfasten it and start again.

“Did I really seduce you? Back… in the beginning?” John looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock pulling on his suit jacket, his face once again serious.

John pauses a moment to contemplate the question. “I dunno, really. Certainly not outright. Christ, that first night you turned me down cold at Angelo’s before I’d even _tried_ to start something.”

“But you were attracted to me.”

“I was. But I think it was just… you being you. As far as I could tell, the seduction bit didn’t start until a few months later, when you started going shirtless around the flat, and then just prancing about in that bloody sheet.”

“Oh, and I suppose your insistence on reading the morning paper commando in nothing but a tiny dressing gown was entirely incidental?”

“Touche, Holmes. Touche.” 

They share a conspiratorial smile, and Sherlock waits patiently as John locates his suit jacket and shrugs it back on, then bends down to rummage underneath the bed for his shoes, whereupon Sherlock makes an appreciative sound.

“What?” John rights himself and sits down on the bed to pull his shoes on.

Sherlock shrugs. “Nothing. Just… admiring your arse. I’m pleased to report it looks as good now as it did thirty-six seconds after I met you.”

John rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he grabs Sherlock’s hand on his way out the door, and together, they make their way downstairs.


	12. Chapter 12

“Oy, John, there you are! We were beginning to think you’d skived off altogether!” John’s reappearance downstairs is heralded by a rosy-cheeked Bill Murray, whom he’s fairly certain he’d seen exchanging furtive sips from a clandestine hip flask with Simms and Johnson, both of whom, John had been touched to see, had come in for the occasion. 

“Well, here I am.” John is suddenly _acutely_ aware of how disheveled he feels following his encounter with Sherlock upstairs (he’s fairly certain it’s all in his head and that the average bystander would be none the wiser, but even so, he gives his hair another self-conscious combthrough with his fingers).

“We’re about to make our way down to the pub. You in?”

John casts a quick glance around the sitting room. The house was emptying out, certainly, but there were a staggering number of paper cups, plates, and napkins lying in jumbled heaps on every conceivable surface, and he’s fairly certain the kitchen would be in even worse condition. “I’d love to, mate, but I ought to stick around here and--”

“Bullshit, he’ll go.” He turns to see Harry emerge from the kitchen with a rubbish bin in hand, shoveling the discarded cutlery into it with an air of grim determination.

“Harry, I’m not gonna leave you here to clean up--”

“The kitchen’s already sorted, Johnny, the sitting room’s the last of it. God bless Aunt Flo for insisting we use disposable dishware for once.”

“But Rosie--”

“Sherlock just put her down, she’s out cold. I’ll stick around in case she wakes up.”

“And Mum--”

“Already in bed with a hot cuppa in one hand and her rosary in the other. Doubt she’ll need anything else tonight.”

John raises his eyebrows incredulously. Was it possible that Harry was not only sober, but also being _responsible?_

“Are you sure?”

Harry rolls her eyes in exasperation. “I’m sure, Johnny. Look, you’ve taken care of enough over the years; let me step up for once, yeah? I got this.”

“Yeah, come on, Johnny boy, she’s got this!” Bill gives John’s shoulder a punch.

John bites his lip. It _would_ be nice to catch up with Simms and Johnson, seeing how they’d travelled all this way--

“Let me check with Sherlock. If Sherlock’s in, I’m in.”

“Sherlock?” Simms looks understandably confused.

“My better half. Probably time I introduced the lot of you. _Behave,_ yeah?”

Simms crosses his heart with faux solemnity. “Scout’s honour. Go grab your ball and chain and let’s get out of here.”

John finds Sherlock perched beside Rosie’s crib, scrolling through his phone. Rosie is, as Harry stated, fast asleep. Sherlock gives John a guilty smile and pockets the device.

“Sherlock Holmes, were you just using our daughter as an excuse to answer texts during my father’s _funeral?”_

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. She drifted off mere moments ago. I was simply ensuring she wasn’t about to wake again.”

“Sure you were. So benevolent of you.” He sidles up to take Sherlock by the lapels and pull him in for a long, luxurious kiss.

It would be so easy to get lost in that moment, John practically has to shake himself to pull away. “So Bill Murray and two other men from my unit invited me down to the pub.”

A shadow falls across Sherlock’s face. “And what did you tell them?”

“I told them I’d go if you’d go.”

Sherlock blinks down at him. “You… you want me to go?”

“Yeah, I do. And I want you to be yourself. Do your deductions, don’t do your deductions, talk, don’t talk, drink, don’t drink, do whatever the hell you feel like doing. I want them to get to know _you.”_

A smile creeps into the corners of Sherlock’s lips, and John can see the warmth return to his eyes. “Oh… okay. I’ll go.”

John breaks into a grin. “Yeah?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and nods. “Yeah.”

John takes him by the hand and leads him back to the sitting room, where Bill, Simms, and Johnson are shrugging on their coats. “Gents? I want you to meet Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Bill Murray - he’s the one who saved my life in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock offers his hand. “Seems I owe you quite the debt of gratitude, then.”

Bill gives John a slightly perplexed look, but takes Sherlock’s hand and gives it a firm shake.

“And this is Simms and Johnson. I’m sure they have first names, but I don’t think any of us have ever used them. Simms, Johnson, this is my partner, Sherlock.”

Simms looks utterly confused. _“You’re_ Sherlock?”

Sherlock offers him a bland smile. “I am. Problem?”

Simms offers his hand. “None at all. I just thought… I thought Sherlock was a girl’s name.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat. “Common misconception, that. The etymology of the name is quite unique, actually; it has roots in old English, with _scir_ meaning ‘bright’ and _locc,_ referring to a lock of hair.”

Johnson cocks his head as he takes Sherlock’s hand to shake it. “Lucky turn-up you didn’t end up bald like me. That’d’ve been awkward.”

Sherlock nods in agreement. “Really dodged a bullet with that one. Though I’m afraid it does compel me to spend more on hair products than I’d perhaps be naturally inclined to.”

And to John’s surprise (and delight), they _laugh._ Bill, Simms, and Johnson, three of the most staunchly masculine men John’s ever met, share a genuine _laugh_ at his gay partner’s joke about hair products.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult, after all.

They all trundle out the door (Harry stopping John to give him a hug and order him to stay the night at the inn with Sherlock) and make their way to the pub. It’s predictably crowded for a Saturday night, with a band comprised of middle-aged men set up in one corner playing what John assesses to be ‘90s rock covers. It feels somehow suddenly like home.

Sherlock peels off his coat with a flourish and turns to face the rest of them. “I’ll get the first round. What’ll it be?” To John’s surprise, Sherlock takes everyone’s orders and elbows his way through the crowd towards the bar. The rest of them manage to grab a recently-vacated table near the back, and John settles into his seat with a relieved sigh.

Johnson clears his throat. “So, uh… not to make this weird, but John, are you… gay?”

John was expecting it, to be honest. He has a serious suspicion this is why Sherlock offered to get the drinks: To give them all a chance to regroup following John’s recent revelation.

John shrugs. “I’m not straight. As you know, well... I was with a lot of women before I met Sherlock. I was married to a woman. But Sherlock is… special to me. And we fell in love, and now we’re here. So… it is what it is.”

Simms looks skeptical. “But you weren’t… back in the service, you weren’t…”

“No, I wasn’t. But that shouldn’t really make a difference, should it? We went through what we went through. This doesn’t change that. At least, I’m hoping it doesn’t. I’m still the same person, after all.” There’s a slight tinge of panic that grips his chest; he realises that this is the first time he’s actually asked for acceptance outright, and the experience is somehow more terrifying than he’d anticipated.

There’s a pregnant pause that seems to last forever, but in reality it’s probably mere seconds before Simms gives a shake of his head. “Nah, doesn’t change anything. Just wouldn’t have guessed, what with your horrible fashion sense and all. I remember that time we were on leave and you had the most hideous collection of jumpers--”

“Oh, piss off, you were the one wearing a goddamn _fedora_ in public. Now there’s a real crime against fashion.”

“Lads, lads, lest we forget, let’s not ignore Nguyen’s bloody _Ed Hardy_ shirt collection--”

“Oh my _God,_ so horrific--”

“Mortifying, honestly--”

The banter is punctuated by Sherlock’s arrival. He deposits the glasses onto the table and slides into the chair next to John’s with his usual air of gracefulness. “What’s mortifying?”

“Oh, we were just reminiscing about John’s jumper collection.”

Sherlock buries his face in his hands. “Oh my God, it was atrocious. I actually set half of it on fire as an act of mercy on behalf of the general public.”

Bill bangs his fists on the table. “Someone get this man a military commendation for contribution to greater society!”

“Well, that’s a bit rich coming from a man who still wears Birkenstocks in the privacy of his own home.” Sherlock’s tone is light and teasing; clearly not confrontational, but he’s undoubtedly baiting him.

Bill pauses. “Wait. How the hell do you know about that?”

John casts a sideways glance at Sherlock and gives him a little nod. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up, and a silent conversation passes between them.

“Well, Sherlock here has a very _special_ set of skills. He can deduce things about a person that are invisible to the average eye. He’s made a whole career out of it.”

Bill raises an eyebrow. “So you can tell I wear Birkenstocks how, exactly?”

Sherlock gives a nonchalant shrug and takes a sip of his drink. “Your over-exaggerated arch. Your gait indicates that you’re naturally flat-footed, but your ankles roll your feet out slightly when you walk. It comes from having too much arch support for the form of your foot. It’s not caused by the types of shoes you’re wearing now, you haven’t got artificial insoles in them, and years in military-grade combat boots wouldn’t have caused the issue. Birkenstocks are notoriously detrimental for the flat-footed populace.”

The faces around the table have all lit up like it’s Christmas. “Oh my God, amazing. Do me, do me!” Simms is all but cackling with glee, and John can’t help but join in.

An indeterminate amount of time (and several rounds) later, John is feeling loose and relaxed. Watching Sherlock interact with his old Army mates is a success beyond his wildest imagination; he’s vibrant and charismatic and just a bit crass, and John can tell his friends have taken a shine to him. He feels warm and full and completely, utterly content.

There’s a brief lull in the conversation, and John elbows Sherlock lightly in the side. “Hey. You want to dance?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart over to where a few couples are swaying drunkenly in front of where the band is playing. “Really?” He sounds incredulous.

John stands up and extends his hand. “Come on. I know you love to dance.”

Sherlock can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face as he takes John’s hand. John turns back to the other members of the table. “Excuse us, lads. Duty calls.”

Bill gives an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, typical Watson, abandoning us to pull every goddamn time.”

John gives him a cheeky wink. “Can’t help it if my natural charisma makes me irresistable.”

“Yeah, yeah, hate the game, not the player. Get out of here.” With a wave of his hand Bill dismisses them, and John leads Sherlock onto the dance floor, pulling him into his arms.

It occurs to John that they haven’t really danced like this before. Sure, there was the time Sherlock tried to teach him to waltz, and that other time, ages ago, when they’d danced to an old jazz record because Sherlock was trying to explain polyrhythm (and what an epic failure _that_ had been…), but they’d never just… danced.

So he pulls Sherlock close and they start to sway. The song is something old but vaguely familiar, and it ignites a dim pulse of nostalgia that makes John feel simultaneously overjoyed and helplessly heartbroken. “Thank you for coming out tonight.” He smiles up at Sherlock.

Sherlock gives him a shy smile in return. “Thank you for having me.”

He wants to say so much more. He wants to thank him for it all: for putting up with his family, for embracing his friends, for tolerating John’s bullshit for longer than he can bring himself to admit…

But instead, they just hold each other. And dance.

**********

It’s approximately 1 hour and 6 minutes outside of the train station when John looks up from his tablet and announces, “I’m pansexual.”

Sherlock peers up at him from over his mobile, where he’d been texting furiously since they’d boarded the train. Rosie had fallen asleep with her head in his lap before they’d even passed the village limits. “Pardon?”

“Harry sent me some links about sexuality and sexual identity, and I’ve been reading up on some stuff. And I’ve discovered I’m pansexual.”

Sherlock looks predictably flummoxed. “And what does that… mean, exactly? I’m not familiar with the term.”

John glances down at the tablet and begins to read. “Well, it’s apparently a pretty newfangled term, but basically, pansexuality is defined as being attracted to individuals regardless of their gender. So in my case… that covers women, and you.”

Sherlock furrows his brow. “Isn’t that the same as bisexuality?”

John purses his lips. “In a lot of ways, yes. But I realise what rubbed be wrong about the term ‘bisexual’ is that it felt too… binary. Like I should be attracted to men and women in equal amounts, or at minimum a 60/40 split or something.” Sherlock opens his mouth to object, but John cuts him off. “Now, I _know_ that’s not really how bisexuality works. But pansexuality allows for some gender fluidity. Like… I’m attracted to you, and your maleness. I love your cock. I love having homosexual sex with you.”

“Thank you.”

John has to fight back a giggle at Sherlock’s characteristic formality. “But as you know, I also like having sex with you when… well, when you’re wearing feminine clothing. Your heels and stockings and garters and panties and… and all that. Celebrating your femininity as well as your masculinity is important to me, too. I don’t want to dismiss that. And even though you identify as cisgender, I do think that aspect of our relationship is worth acknowledging.”

Sherlock blinks twice, then responds. “Alright, then.” He returns his gaze to his mobile.

John cocks his head. “Alright?”

Sherlock looks up. “Did you… not think it was alright?”

John shrugs. “I just didn’t know if it would be… enough.” Sherlock narrows his eyes appraisingly. “Like… if you’d be disappointed that I wasn’t… full-blown gay.”

Sherlock snorts and bursts out laughing, and John can’t help but follow suit. “ _‘Full-blown gay?’_ Oh, that’s rich, I’ll have to tell Aaron, he’s going to die. You’ve dubbed us _‘full-blown gays…_ ” Sherlock dissolves into another fit of giggles, and John’s secretly thrilled he hasn’t taken offense.

When he’s finally managed to collect himself, Sherlock dabs his eyes with his handkerchief before speaking once more. “To ease your mind, John, no, I’m not disappointed that you’re not ‘full-blown gay.’ So long as you identify with a sexuality that encompasses your present as well as your past, I’m on board. Just promise I’ll never have to hear you declare how NOT GAY you are ever again.”

Despite himself, John grins back. “Promise. From now on, you can consider me an out-and-proud, card-carrying, flaming pansexual.”

Sherlock smirks. “Fair enough.”

John leans over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. And for once, he doesn’t check to see who may be watching.

 

******  
Barely a month later, on a cloudy, inconspicuous Tuesday morning at half-past nine, John takes Sherlock’s hand as they wind their way through the labyrinth of Westminster City Hall. At the Register’s Office, they present their papers, sign some forms, and receive a certificate. Afterwards, they grab coffees at the kiosk down the street, then Sherlock catches a cab towards Bart’s and John takes the Tube to the surgery. That night, he picks up Rosie from daycare, he and Sherlock cook dinner whilst Rosie babbles excitedly about the exploits of her day, and then Sherlock puts her down while John does the dishes. Then they watch a bit of crap telly, and John laughs while Sherlock points out the flaws in whatever rubbish crime procedural is on, then they go to bed and have some very pleasant sex before drifting off into an exhausted sleep.

All in all, it’s a day like any other. Except that from that day forward, Sherlock would never again question that what they had was real. And John would never again doubt that it had been. From the very beginning.

Or, at least, thirty-six seconds in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TA-DA! Finally finished! Good lord, what a haul. Hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> If anyone’s curious, the song I imagine them dancing to at the pub is “Insomniac,” by Billy Pilgrim-- but leave your own suggestions in the comments below!
> 
> And last but not least, a bit of an announcement (and a plea for advice):
> 
> I’ve had a lot of requests to make this series available in hard copy, so I’m looking into self-publishing options right now, as this feels like a natural breaking point in the series. That said: I know ACD is public domain, but has anyone got a clue how these things usually work legally when it comes to publishing fanfiction? I’d really love some insight into how the process works, and whether I need to be concerned about the legality of publishing in another forum. Please send any suggestions to illwick1776@gmail.com . 
> 
> And stay tuned and subscribe to this series if you liked it - more updates are in the works, and I’ll be posting again shortly! Leave requests in the comments section below.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm apparently an emotional masochist?


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